


Tell That Mick

by Flames_and_Jade, SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: American!Pete, Anal Sex, Banter, Bartender - Freeform, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, College Student, Dirty Talk, Dublin - Freeform, Falling In Love, Fluff, Ireland, Irish!Patrick, M/M, Peterick, Phone Sex, Smut, gaelic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-02-06 08:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 74,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12813513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: There's magic everywhere - in the deep bowels of the Pyramids, in the whirling colour above Nordic fjords, in the jungles of the Amazon. But there's a special kind of magic in the Emerald Isle with its mists that hide all manner of the supernatural. It's thesomethingthat shimmers and twists, dancing between an Irish barman with blue eyes and a sassy mouth and an American student with eyeliner and a too-tight shirt.It might be just another brush of lives, fleeting and only remembered for a moment... or it could be something more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Right, well, this happened.
> 
> After driving to work listening to Galway Girl by Ed Sheeran and throwing the sentence "What if Patrick was an Irish bartender?" at Flames_and_Jade, we somehow wound up with this. 
> 
> This will be lovely. 
> 
> This will be nothing but fluff and sunshine and rainbows. 
> 
> _This_ is Patrick with a Dublin accent. Seriously, what more could you ask for?

_They say in Ireland “is ait an mac an saol.” It means, put simply, “life is strange,” but in that beautiful tongue of the Emerald Isle it sounded like something more. It sounded like a promise, it sounded like good things to come. It sounded like Irish magic and fairy tales and leprechauns with pots of gold. It was written - carved into the ancient beam in fact, blackened with age - above the bar in The Castle Cross (just off O’Connell Street, if you found your feet wet in the Liffey, you’d gone too far), ready to greet those who gathered there to drink away their sorrows or toast their happiness. It’s been there since puss was a kit, since God was a boy, at least, that’s what the bar staff told the newcomers with a smile and a pint of the black stuff._

_Life is strange._

_But there was a touch of Irish magic in the air the night he first saw him, to be sure. Something of whimsy and wonder as blue eyes came to rest on a bluer O’Neill’s shirt - two sizes too small - and jeans just this side of indecent. Sure, there was too much eyeliner, a tooth-bright dazzle of a smile and hair like jet that flopped into eyes like Jamesons. American. No doubt about it. Now, he kept an eye on the Americans that bouldered in like gobshites and staggered out on legs like liquid. They weren’t good with Guinness, the Americans, not good at all. But that’s not why he watched that one, the pretty one with a grin like jokes and eyes like fire. He knew trouble when he saw it; good trouble, yes. Playful trouble._

_And, the barman knew - hands braced against the bar, towel slung over his shoulder as he served a pretty girl who told him she was from Paris and demanded a lucky Irish kiss - that good things come to those that wait._

_It took longer for the magic to weave it’s way around the room. Just a few minutes as he made his way from his friends to the bar, as he brought his arms to rest against the battle-scarred oak and looked up. Just a few heartbeats as everything he is stuttered to a stop of wide eyes and lush lips curved into a smirk like sunrise. Just a moment as he tried to think of something to say to the man in front of him with skin like every folk song he’d been subjected to since arriving, with eyes as deep and blue as Galway Bay - not that he’d been yet but give him chance - and with a gleam to him like Irish gold._

_The American stared and decided he was beautiful. The Irishman smiled and thought he was sort of cute for a Yank. Outside, the moonlight danced on the Liffey like a thousand stars, like wonderful things could happen that night to those that believed that life was, indeed, strange._

_And in The Castle Cross, the magic took a breath, and…_

“An féidir liom cabhrú leat?” Patrick asked over the hum of a hundred chattered conversations. It was fun to fuck with the tourists. A wonderfully executed look of thorough confusion crept across dark eyes that widened helplessly as he continued sharply. “Déan deifir!”

“Is… Is that what it says up there?” The man asked hesitantly, reaching up to brush a hand against the low beam of the bar, strip of skin like toffee revealed above his belt, and Patrick’s smirk widened.

“Nil, a deir; is ait an mac an saol,” Patrick blinked innocently before continuing with a just a note of cheeky impatience. “Déan deifir, leathcheann!”

“Do- do you speak English?” The man with the eyes like glowing coals drew each word out loudly and slowly, and Patrick held his puzzled frown beautifully - the guy was a feckin’ eejit, lucky thing he was a fine bit of stuff.

“Yeah so, don’t you speak Gaelic?” He drawled back, dragging out each word in a teasing parody that brought a flush to gold cheeks. “I’m just messing with you, what can I get you?”

On a chilly January night in Dublin, an American considered his options. On a night where the river mist crept it’s crawl just down Abbey Street an Irish bartender named Patrick watched with an interested kind of smirk. There were tales of leprechauns out by the Liffey, of the little folk that could weave their mischief and tricks to lead travellers a merry dance. Patrick always rather fancied those tales, stood on the ha’penny bridge and watched, eyes bright with roguish wonder as a child, misted with whiskey as a man, and waited. Maybe the man was what he’d waited for.

“Uh, right,” the handsome man in the too-new, too-small O’Neill’s shirt fumbled for his wallet as he considered the chillers behind the bar carefully. “I guess I’ll take a… a Bud Light?”

Patrick grinned. Patrick bit his lip and adjusted the peak of his postboy cap against his brow - in his light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, waistcoat and jeans, he knew he was very much what the tourists expected to see behind the bar - then slowly raised his eyes to the American. He let the silence beat between them for just a second too long to feel entirely comfortable, let the thrum of a hundred _other_ voices speak for him and his quiet contemplation. He let the man with the pretty eyes shuffle, embarrassed, from foot to foot and then, leaning over the bar so he could gesture him closer like a promise, stage whispered like a conspiracy, “I’m sorry, this is embarrassing for you, you’ve come into a _pub,_ we only sell minerals as mixers.”

The silence ticked on, underscored by amber eyes shock-wide and a mouth that framed silent disbelief. Patrick propped an elbow on the bar and casually swung down his towel from his shoulder, wiping at a spill that didn’t exist until laughter shredded the air between them - not a pretty laugh but a genuine one that rolled from his stomach to burble up and over his lips like pixie springs - and a hand coloured like the lattes they only served at lunchtime reached across the bar. In a twinkle of Irish eyes, the handsome man had a name, the handsome man became _Pete._

Pete wasn’t subtle, of that Patrick quickly became aware. He was the only one of his group to thread his way to the bar time after time, he paused for too long once his drinks were handed over - pints and shots for his friends and his own lonely bottle in the midst of each tray robed in red, white and blue. The Irishman found that more than a little amusing - only Americans would flaunt their love of terrible beer by dressing it in national colours. Pete found inane reasons to talk and eventually, with a twinkle of a smile, he came out with it, “Dude, you’re fucking bankrupting me.”

“How so?” Patrick smiled at the pint he pulled, drawing the pump smoothly to create the perfect head - once it settled, of course - swirling the tap through the foam to carve a lucky shamrock amongst the cream with the flair of an artist. Some of the barmen used the plastic stamp on the shelf. Patrick thought of that as cheating.

“I’m the only asshole coming up here to buy the drinks,” Pete stage whispered - Patrick knew a thing or two about stages and already knew Pete was a terrible actor - arms painted with stories that Patrick was eager to hear resting flush to the bar. “They know I’m crushin’ on you and they’re taking advantage and _you,_ well, you’re just letting them. Is that how you guys work, hmm? Some kind of Irish unity?”

Patrick didn’t reply right away, no, that would’ve been unseemly. Instead he served another couple of patrons, shared a joke with a regular that would make a whore blush, proved to Mickey the bar manager that he absolutely _could_ balance a full bottle of Bulmers on his forehead and _then,_ he turned back to Pete. Pete who waited, sipping his bottle of horrible beer, relaxed and at ease in the hustle of the bar even whilst being wilfully ignored. Patrick grinned and stepped across the flagstones, shoved a man in a Leinster shirt from over the bar and shouted with a lilt of teasing accusation, “Seamus, shift your fuckin’ arse, you great gobshite, g’wan with you, up on your feet.”

Seamus, all six feet five of him, all muscle and red hair and shoulders made for rugby, lumbered to his feet obediently, with a knowing sort of a smirk. Seamus was one of the ones Patrick wasn’t opposed to going home with now and again, “Now then, Pat, and for a Yank, no less. You’re hurtin’ my feelings.”

“Aw, sure look it,” Patrick’s grinned wide as the bar as he gestured to the stool with a flourish of a bow. “A throne, your highness, save your legs.”

Pete slid onto the stool with a grin and took another sip of his beer, “Is this an invitation to keep on flirting with you?”

“Oh, so _that’s_ what you’re doing now?” Patrick smiled a secretive sort of smile. Pete wasn’t the first tourist to lean up against the bar and fall for Patrick’s charm, he wasn’t the first to respond with his own and he wouldn’t be the first to find himself in Patrick’s bed the following morning. But Patrick had grown a little tired of being a souvenir. Still, Pete had pretty eyes and a shine of a grin so he could sit around, keep Patrick company and give him a decent view for the evening. “You’re fuckin’ terrible at it, so.”

Patrick was lying and Pete knew it as he smiled an easy smile and took another mouthful of his drink that Patrick would not dignify with the name _beer._ The conversation flowed as easy as the drinks; he was good company, the American, charming and funny. He didn’t pout when Patrick shared a bit of craic with this customer or that, didn’t seem concerned if left to himself for minutes or more, just sipped his drink and watched Patrick with a sweet kind of interest. Life was strange and Pete was pretty and Patrick wondered, a hint of that tingling magic still lingering in the air, why he was indulging in such fanciful notions. So what if Pete had pretty eyes? There were half a million people in Dublin, half of those men, and Patrick was sure at least a few of them must have a gaze just as beautiful.

“Seriously though,” Pete asked over his fourth or fifth Bud Light. “All I’ve heard since I got here is goddamn violins and those weird little drums.”

“Fiddles and bodhráns,” Patrick corrected absently and flawlessly; he was raised speaking Gaelic by his Galway-born mammy. “And that’s what the tourists want to hear. You don’t think,” he huffed a little as Pete echoed _“tink,”_ with a slightly inebriated giggle, “you don’t think _that’s_ what we _actually_ listen to, do you? In our cars on the way to work?”

“Are you telling me, Irish Boy,” Pete narrowed his eyes and raised his chin, all challenge. “That you have _actual_ music over here? Like… Green Day?”

“Oh sure, they’re those fellas from Cork now, aren’t they?” Patrick teased with a lilt of a laugh. “The ceilidh band?”

“Okay, smartass,” Pete could apparently appreciate sarcasm, that left Patrick pleasantly surprised. “How about… Saves The Day?”

“Ah, now,” Patrick rubbed at the light grate of stubble on his chin as he pretended to think deeply. “That’s the Catholic band, so. The one from Killarney?”

“All right, fine,” Pete tipped back his head and drained his beer. There was something elegant and compelling about the way his throat contracted as he swallowed, the beautiful flow of tan skin working over muscle and Patrick treated himself to a glance glazed with lust. His fingers tingled a little with the urge to touch, to graze them gently over the line of Pete’s neck, to draw him in for a kiss with a hand against that smooth-shaven jaw. Pete lowered his bottle and his eyes - Patrick took pride in his knowledge of whiskey and, looking a little more closely, he thought they might be the colour of a good peated single malt rather than something so common as Jamesons. A decent Connemara, perhaps. “I’m still not buying it.”

“Paddy! Stop chasin’ a shift and get your arse over here!” There came a shout from the small stage at the far end of the bar and Patrick made a mental note to punch Mickey right in his stupid gob for using his least-favoured diminutive of Patrick. He leaned against the bar, close to Pete, forearms close enough that he could feel a suggestion of warmth and a crackle of something else that radiated from him. Pete leaned in, eyes bright with challenge as he waited for Patrick to speak.

“How about I show you, hmm?” He murmured, tucking a lock of hair out of Pete’s eyes with a smile alight with mischief, twisting away before Pete could reply. He snatched a mouthful of water from the bottle he kept behind the bar - no drinking before a performance - and headed up to the stage without a backward glance. He fussed with his guitar for a moment, could feel the weight of a golden gaze heavy against his shoulders and grinned to himself. He was about to turn around, about to swing the strap over his shoulder and take his place with the rest of the band when a warm hand came to rest against his arm and he turned to unfamiliar blue eyes.

“You okay, fella?” The stranger asked and Patrick nodded with a friendly handshake. “Your man over there,” the man with a strong Limerick accent nodded at Pete, “You okay with him? We’re moving on but he wants to stay and make the eyes at you. He’s at the student digs down on Blessington, in case he has a bad turn and forgets where he is.”

“I’ll see him home, so,” Patrick grinned with a wink. “Safe in his own bed, on my honour.”

“Good man,” Pete’s friend smiled just as wide with a neat little punch to Patrick’s shoulder. “Slán go fóill.”

“Tabhair aire,” Patrick replied, watching as he crossed the bar to Pete, as he muttered a few words in his ear and pointed across the bar to Patrick, as they both grinned and Pete blushed a little, bright between the black of his hair and the blue of his shirt. He ran his fingertips sharply against the strings, the noise attracting the attention of some of those gathered in the bar.

“Play Tubthumpin’, Pat,” some smartarse called from the crowd.

“Fuck off, Cian, you cunt,” Patrick shouted back with a smirk, delighting in the way Pete’s eyes widened in shock.

“You’re a feckin’ tool, Stumph,” Cian replied without malice.

“And your ma’s your da wi’ a wig on,” Patrick cut back smartly. Pete laughed, surrounded by Cian and his pals, though Patrick could tell from the confusion in his eyes that he didn’t really understand the joke. That was okay though, he’ll pick it up. The thought pulled him up short; _why_ would Pete be around for long enough to absorb Patrick’s sense of humour? He was just being friendly, just showing a tourist a bit of craic for the evening before delivering him safe to his bed with all the other students. Nothing more. There came that magic again though, that drift around the bar and it could have been anticipation of the music, or perhaps just the glow of the alcohol through the crowd. Or it could have been something else.

He was thinking like a gobshite.

There was a click of drumsticks behind him, a whoop from James over his shoulder on the bass and Patrick licked his lips and began to play. Lips brushing close to the microphone, he closed his eyes as he started to sing, the melody smooth and slow as he rocked his hips with the beat. He knew there were pockets of people around the crowded bar watching him, knew there were a lot more just letting the music wash over them as they drank, but he swore he could _feel_ one pair of eyes in particular, bright and burning hot like a will-o’-the-wisp. He opened his eyes lazily as he reached the chorus and met Pete’s eyes with a smirk, _“She wore a raspberry beret, the kind you find in a second-hand store, raspberry beret, and if it was warm she wouldn’t wear much more…”_

It had taken him a while to convince Mickey that Prince was an appropriate addition to the setlist, but show Patrick a man that didn’t like to warble a drunken falsetto and he’d show you a man that was tired of life. Pete seemed to be enjoying it, lyrics loaded thick and heavy as they were, eyes flitting between Patrick’s hands, eyes and lingering for more time than they should on his lips. Patrick had heard things about his lips, many a whispered suggestion, ever since he started sneaking into pubs at sixteen and Pete - soft shite that he was - wasn’t immune.

Patrick might have overdone it with the way he played the tip of his tongue against them lightly between songs, the way he smirked all twinkle and knowing at a man almost lost amongst a gang of locals who had, no doubt, decided he was their new best friend. That was Dublin though; no one a stranger, just the best mate you hadn’t met yet.

He even threw in a cover of Basket Case, just to prove a point.

But in the end it was just Patrick, a stool and his acoustic guitar, shirt and brow damp with sweat as he sang, soft and simple, one of the songs his mammy sang to him as a kid. The bar was quiet, an expectant sort of stilled hush that hung electric and golden over the room, conversations reduced to a whisper as the crowd waited for the spell to break. Patrick always wondered, when he sang that song, how many men before him may have stood in the bar and lilted the selfsame words. He treated it with respect, that song, with the tender care of a lover as he rolled the syllables over his tongue and kept his eyes sure and steady on Pete’s over the heads of the crowd between them as he brought the song to a gentle close.

_“But since it falls unto my lot, that I should rise and you should not, I'll gently rise and I'll softly call, goodnight and joy be with you all, goodnight and joy be with you all…”_

The applause told him it’d be a grand night for tips.

He slipped into the back as the chatter ramped back up, as Mickey blasted ceilidh music from the sound system and a crush of bodies pressed to the bar for more drinks. He grabbed his messenger bag and slipped on his coat and glasses, pausing to split his share of the tips with the rest of the band, euros sliding into his pocket like a waterfall of rattling coins. He shrugged off the usual jokes about leprechauns and pots of gold. It was the sideburns. They could feck off.

He jingled with coin and camaraderie as he headed back into the bar, slipping around behind a grinning man with black hair and golden eyes and brought his hand to rest in the small of his back, fingertips just brushing that exposed strip of caramel skin. He wondered, with a flash of a thrill, how it might taste as he leaned in to murmur into his ear, “Your mates took off and apparently I’m babysitting you. You coming?”

“Fuck, Pat,” Pete swivelled on the stool with a smile close to blinding. “You can sing like a goddamn _angel,_ man, I-”

“Patrick,” he corrected quickly with a grin as he cuffed an affectionate scuff of his knuckles to the side of Pete’s jaw. Bloody Cian was no doubt the one that told Pete to call him Pat, the feckin’ gowl. “Only my nana calls me Pat and doesn’t get a black eye for her trouble, so.”

Pete followed like a lamb through the crowd to the door, pausing when Patrick stopped to say goodnight to this one and that one on the way through until they were outside in the chill of the night. The air burned, crisp and cold in his lungs, welcome relief from the damp heat of the bar and he shoved his hands down into his pockets and eyed Pete speculatively.

“Where are we going?” Pete asked in a way that suggested he didn’t really mind, eyes all soft and lips curled at the corners.

“Well, I don’t know about you but I could do with a pint,” Patrick smiled broadly and jingled the euros in his pocket. “A real one, not that pish you were downing in there.”

“Dude,” Pete’s face was painted with confusion as he glanced back over his shoulder. “You literally work in a bar and we’re going someplace else to drink?”

“Sure, so,” Patrick shrugged and set off, trainers thumping against the cobbles of the ancient street. “I love Mickey like my own brother but his pub’s shite. Come on, y’dope, I’m gonna take you somewhere the tourists don’t go and conduct a few experiments.”

“Experiments?” Pete echoed with an eyebrow raised. He didn’t look nervous though, he looked relaxed and ready to treat the night as a jape in a city clearly very far from home, Patrick liked that about him. “Am I gonna wake up in a bathtub of ice with no kidneys?”

“Ah, now, what a glorious night _that_ would be,” Patrick declared, slinging an arm around slim shoulders. Patrick wasn’t tall, but neither was Pete, the gesture worked and Pete leaned into him with a low laugh. “C’mon, pal, the night is young and so are we, let’s go have a grand adventure.”

The pub was a tiny affair lost down a tangle of streets that weaved and overlapped in a mess of cobbles and dimly-lit windows, following the mist of their breath through the city. The moon had long since robed itself in dark velvet clouds and the light came only from streetlights and storefronts as he led the way like the Pied Piper. He pretended not to notice the way Pete’s hand slipped from his shoulder to the small of his back, how he hooked his thumb into the warmed leather of Patrick’s belt, skin brushing skin like a promise. He pretended it was accidental as he slid his own thumb into the collar of Pete’s coat, grazing against that flesh like gold that he’d admired in The Castle Cross.

Magic didn’t need moonlight.

Once they were inside and warm, once he’d greeted a dozen people with handshakes and hugs as they called his name, he steered Pete to a table in the corner, pushing him down into a seat with a muttered tease, “I’m not asking what you’re wanting, you’re just gonna drink what you’re given like a good lad, so.”

Pete just nodded with a lazy sort of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, tucking up with a smirk as he leaned back against the seat. The smile fell a little when Patrick returned with a couple of pints of Guinness, deposited onto the table along with his wallet and phone. Whilst in Dublin, Patrick decided, Pete could drink like a Jackeen although he would admit to feeling an urge to slap him around a little when he fearfully asked if it was warm, “The glass is sweating, you prick, of course it’s cold! And we _don’t_ serve Gat warm. Cold Gat, warm glass, now drink up, I’m feckin’ gasping, so.”

There was something downright sinful about the cream left clinging to the soft lines of Pete’s mouth as he lowered his glass after the first long pull. The way his tongue curled over them to clear it away in a manner that Patrick very much wanted to do himself, something that gave Patrick what a vulgar man might refer to as _knob twitch._ But he wasn’t that sort, at least not with the tourists, so he downed his pint and relaxed into easy conversation. His mammy always told him he had the gift of the gab, that he could talk the hind legs off a donkey but he didn’t need to rely on that skill with Pete who commanded his own conversation, engaging and bright. They didn’t talk about anything important, nothing personal or particularly deep, just good craic with good stout in a quiet little pub in middle of The Pale.

Whiskey next, Patrick decided with a grin, already amused at the high colour cresting Pete’s cheeks, at the artificial brightness in his eyes and the way his speech just started to slur. They stocked Teeling’s in the pub - a favourite of Patrick’s - Redbreast, Connemara and Power’s and he lined up a selection in front of Pete, daring him with eyes that gleamed like summer sun off the Dublin bay to try to taste the difference. When they staggered out into the cold, hours lost to liquor and Patrick seemingly supporting a lot more of Pete’s weight than he seemed capable of taking himself, the watch at his wrist declared it to be close to two in the morning. Blessington was a hell of a stagger away but Patrick’s flat was close, just a few narrow streets over, above a bookshop and hidden in the attic.

“Pete? Peter?” His slur turned to a hiss as he patted the smooth gold of Pete’s cheek. “You want me to get you back to your place, so? ‘S a long walk, mate, I- I got a flat nearby.”

“Are you… prop- porpa- proposit-... Do you wanna _fuck_ me, Patrick?” Pete’s voice came thick with whiskey, eyes barely open as he giggled around a hiccup. “You’re cute. Anyone told you that? So fuckin’ cute. You- you can fuck me, if you want… You’re _real_ fuckin’ cute. You think I’m cute?”

“For a Yank,” Patrick was ossified, but not stupid. He smiled though, cheshire cat wide, as Pete leaned in and pressed a wet kiss that smelled of malt and heat to the side of his neck. Pete was _exactly_ the kind of eejit that would trip over a hedgehog upon legging it in the wrong direction then drive straight into a Garda car but fuck it, he was charming all fuzzy with booze. “C’mon you feckin’ scut, get your arm round me, so. Let’s get you abed before the Gardai take you away…”

_It’s said that all good fairy tales start with “once upon a time in a land far away…” Well, that just isn’t the case. Fairy tales can begin in the most innocuous of places, in an office or a park or a trendy tourist pub in the fair city._

_On a dark night in Dublin, as the mist drifted across the cast of the Liffey, as the river rippled it’s way towards Dublin Bay, an Irishman named Patrick ruminated through a fog of whiskey that life was certainly strange. Maybe it was the faeries down by the river, hiding under the ha’penny bridge and casting his mind full of wicked thoughts, or perhaps it was the warm breath that dampened his ear but - he had to admit - there was a certain sparkle in the air like something good was coming._

_As an American named Pete rested his head on the broad warmth of a shoulder that smelled of cologne and warm wool, he wondered absently how the soft pink lips no more than six inches from his own might taste with their glaze of Guinness and gold. He wondered if the tingle in his stomach was the alcohol or something more. He wondered how the hand looped under his arm might feel tight to his hip as they filled the room with sweat and curses. He wondered how Patrick looks as he sleeps._

_On a dark night in Dublin, something magical happened as two men - strangers mere hours previously - began their fairy tale._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves* Hi guys!!! So...I'm sorry this chapter is a little late, but it's all my fault. Actually, it's my job's fault--sixteen hour days don't make for good writing. If someone wanted to hire is to just write fanfic, Snitches and I are both down, let us know where to send the resume! Anyways...thank you for coming along with us on this tale of Irish!Patrick, and we hope ever so much that you enjoy! <3

 

 

It was _cold_ out when they tumbled out of the bar, the noise spilling golden and rowdy onto the street in an effusion of warmth before the door slammed shut with a heavy _thunk_ . Pete could feel it thrumming through his veins--the thrill of a night that was still young and a new companion who was still unexplored. He’d always felt that way when he met new people; they were like a treasure mine of potential. They could be full of surprising interests and hidden treasure, or just a shell wrapped around a soul full of rot...but the _possibility_ of it was something amazing. His best friend, his soulmate, his mortal enemy--it could be anyone, it was all just potential wrapped up in each new meeting.

 

So he didn’t argue when Patrick led him down a totally-unlit street with the calm assurance that he hoped meant he knew exactly where he was going. He followed like an excited puppy, and hey, could anyone blame him for slipping under Patrick’s arm? So what if it seemed like a retriever wiggling into any place possible in the hope of being granted pets? Taking Patrick’s snort of laughter as a good sign, he slipped an arm around his waist and _nuzzled_. He smelled so good--a whiff of cologne he couldn’t place, an earthy tang from the thick wool of his coat and something else. Something he couldn’t describe with words but that reminded him of flying kites with his sister by the lake and the way Chicago smells after it rains.

 

Patrick carried on talking about something but he missed the beginning due to his musings, so he made do with hummed noises of interest as he let his thoughts run away like marbles skittering across a concrete floor. He thought of the way Patrick’s eyes had glittered from across the bar as he mocked him for his choice of beer, the deadpan delivery and then the mocking grin that tucked up the corners of his mouth after several heartbeats of judgement. Like it had been kicked to the side, suddenly rolling a new direction his brain cut across with thoughts of Patrick’s lips-- _god_ he had lips to die for, plush, plump, and even more tantalizing knowing that they held back such sass. He snuck a glance upwards, at blonde hair poking out from under a newsboy cap and sideburns that hugged delightfully rounded cheeks. It looked soft, he noted, and felt the ridiculous urge to slip his hand up and test his hypothesis. But he decided against it--better to play it cool, to not jump in with both feet and his eyes closed. God knows that hadn’t ended well in the past, so he contented himself with slipping his thumb into the belt loop his fingers brushed again, shivering as his  fingertips just grazed the warm skin of a perfectly rounded waist. Patrick didn’t say anything, either blissfully unaware of his own nerve endings or indifferent, but he couldn’t hold back a smile as pale fingers brushed his neck. He wanted to push Patrick against the crumbling brick of the alley and kiss him until he was breathless, he wanted to slip his hands around his waist and feel the perfect smooth warmth of his skin. But instead he just watched their feet as they headed into the night.

 

~//~

 

“I’m not asking what you’re wanting, you’re just gonna drink what you’re given like a good lad, so.” Patrick stated like he wasn’t expecting an argument, and Pete just nodded in unthinking acquiescence. He’d never stoop to to tell a bartender what to order especially in his own stomping ground, and he could very much tell that _this_ was Patrick’s place. This was where he felt comfortable, guiding Pete through throngs of people who looked delighted to see him with an ease that made him wonder. Why had Patrick brought him here? Why not just drink at the Castle Cross if he wasn’t interested, leave himself open to an easy escape from Pete’s company? Instead, he had brought Pete to a place that was all his, a place that, as he had said himself, was clearly _somewhere the tourists didn’t go_ and let him into his own little world. He watched Patrick duck through the crowd, all bright smiles and sparkling laughter before he vanished into the throng and Pete sat back with his thoughts.

 

The shout of joy that echoed from at least a dozen throats had startled him as they pushed through the door, out of the cold and into the welcoming warmth. He had blinked and glanced around--gleaming copper and dark wood greeted him, bottles gleaming with promise behind a bar lit by candles in sconces--and he narrowly avoided being jostled off his feet by a girl who jumped out of the crowd to wrap herself around Patrick. A strong hand had caught his arm and kept him on his feet, Patrick’s eyes bright as he patted the girl on the back and laughed. She held up her left hand and giggled as a tall man with scraggly blonde hair wrapped his arms around her waist, his own smile as bright as the ring that flashed from her fourth finger. Patrick said something congratulatory in Gaelic before wrapping them both in hugs that looked like they just fell short of hurting, but then had grabbed Pete’s arm and pulled him along, stopping every few steps to say hello to a craggy-faced woman with gold teeth, a skinny girl with close-cropped hair and plugs, a man in orange construction gear, and on it had gone. It had felt like walking through the biggest family Thanksgiving dinner, aunts and uncles saying hello and asking why he wasn’t married yet, except it was in english so thickly accented it may as well have been Gaelic and with people who looked like so much more fun than his family. His eyes had drifted over Patrick time and time again--at the way he had a brilliant smile and a greeting for each, a word of concern or interest or a joke that seemed to match each life like a puzzle piece.

 

Being _social_ had never been something he’d been particularly good at doing. Oh he could walk into a room and make friends, without a doubt, but there was always a sort of rattling unease under his ribs as he desperately hoped to find someone who would let him into their circle, who was interested in soccer or comics or the latest episode of _General Hospital_ . He struggled to remember names and details, hazy with self-doubt and the nagging fear that he’d be left alone. Once he found his tribe, he glittered and shone and commanded an audience...but it was finding his troupe, his wandering act of crazies that was _hard._ Finding someone to _stay_ with him afterwards was even harder.

 

He was pulled from his reminiscing by the clunking of heavy glass against the table and he looked up to see dark, stormy Guinness staring back at him along with a mocking blue gaze.

 

“Uhh...it’s not warm, is it?”

 

~//~

 

He decided the room was _definitely_ wobbling as he stared at the two tumblers of whiskey left on his side of the table. They’d finished the Redbreast and Powers...so Pete was pretty sure this was the Connemara and Teeling’s left. Patrick’s pale fingers were curled with care around his glass, swirling the single ice cube delicately as he waxed on about notes of vanilla, blackberries and apple pie in the drink, with a floral finish. Color was just starting to bloom on his cheeks, and Pete decided he was definitely okay with this whole arrangement. Taking a sip, he let the whiskey sit on his tongue before it burned its way down and decided maybe he _could_ taste a hint of vanilla.

 

“I’m guessing tequila shots aren’t really your thing, huh?” He asked, wondering if his words were slurring or if it was just his ears slowing down. But he decided he really didn’t care, not when he got to see the lovely way Patrick glared, plush lips turning down at the corners and brow furrowing as he considered Pete with something akin to wrathful judgement.

 

“Do I look like a tequila person, so?” He rolled his eyes and took another sip of the whiskey, forehead smoothing out as it went down. “Especially when I can drink this instead?” Unable to argue, Pete just took another drink of his own and yeah--he _definitely_ tasted that vanilla now. He told Patrick that and felt something squeeze his heart at the way his face lit up at his pronouncement. “Fair play, fella! It’s good, isn’t it now? Just a hint of vanilla along with the apple crisp, and then the carmel on the tail? Grand.”

 

“Not as _grand_ as you.” He couldn't help it, because drinking made him honest and apparently whiskey made him charming. “Well, except for your regrettable choice of a _Prince_ song earlier.”

 

“Feck off! _Raspberry Beret_ is a classic, it’s a perfect--”

 

“Yeah, but _Kiss_ is better, plus think about it! It’s a bar! Everyone wants to be kissed in a bar! Didn’t you want to be kissed?” Pete felt a wide smile spread across his face, compounded by what he swore was some very colorful grumbling under Patrick’s breath. But his companion merely shook his head, declaring him certifiably crazy and pushed the final tumbler forward.

 

“Keep spouting such nonsense and I’ll get you a warm Guinness and make you drink that instead of the best whiskey in the world.”

 

“Thought you said you don’t serve it warm!” Pete gave him a look full of _aha!_ As Patrick took a sip of his final glass.

 

“They keep a special cask under the bar for eejits. And if you can’t taste the peat and almonds in that, I’ll _know_ you’re a feckin’ eejit,” Patrick pronounced, taking a pull of his with an expectant look that somehow still managed to be self-assured.

 

Pete shook his head and placed a finger over his lips, shooting for a pose of suave deliberation but knowing full well he probably just looked stupid. “Nope, before I try it--you have to answer an equally high-stakes question.”

 

“Sure so, give it your best.” Somewhere in a distant part of his brain that wasn’t swimming in whiskey, he thought that Patrick sounded significantly less drunk than he should and that was _unfair._ But he shook it off, plowing ahead because what did he have to lose?

 

“Will you go on a date with me?”

 

“Oh, piss off.” Patrick took another sip, hiding something Pete _thought_ was a smile and a blush. But apparently whiskey had the power to fortify the sass powers of certain Irishmen, so the whisper of color was gone when the glass landed empty on the table and Patrick just rolled his eyes. “Stop stalling like a twat and drink your Connemara like a man.”

 

Giving him a long look, Pete decided that he _liked_ this. He liked bantering back and forth with this pale-skinned, pink-lipped angel of an Irishman who had the mouth of a demon and the curves of a temptress. He leaned forward on the table, clapping his hand on Patrick’s shoulder as he put the glass to his lips, keeping their gazes locked as he took a long sip. To anyone else, it would look like they were having a heavy word...so what if it was just a cover to run the tips of his fingers through the blonde strands that were just brushing the tops of his shoulders? It was as feather-soft and perfect as he’d imagined, and Patrick just stared back with a look that said he was ready to spring into full-up judgement at a moment’s notice.

 

But _God_ that was good whiskey. He wasn’t sure what _peat_ was supposed to taste like, but it was smoky and smooth...it made him think of libraries full of beautiful words ensconced in dark mahogany, of candlelight and a stranger’s sheets. Leaning back, he gave Patrick a smile that he was sure looked as crooked as it felt and nodded.

 

“That’s _good_.”

 

The light in Patrick’s eyes flared with laughter and camaraderie, and he decided as his vision blurred...this was _awesome._

 

~//~

 

There was a rustling sound, a clatter like silverware clanking against itself, and a muffled thunk that sounded distinctly like a head impacting with something hard and unyielding. The soft stream of hissed curses that followed seemed to support that hypothesis, and Pete couldn’t help but congratulate himself for his mad science skills. Especially considering his head felt like someone had decided to recently use it as a drumset.

 

Opening his eyes to the grey dimness of the morning light coming through non-descript curtains, he took stock of his surroundings. A hideous plaid couch that would have looked at home in his grandmother’s basement, a surprisingly warm plush blanket draped over his body and a pillow that felt like it had some creative knotwork stitched into it, judging by the press of thready knobs into his cheek. _On the scale of one to prison after blacking out, it’s really not bad at all_ , he thought, wiggling his toes as he stretched cautiously before looking down at his feet in surprise. His shoes were off, and a turn of his neck that his aching head protested mightily told him they were placed neatly next to the coffee table.

 

 _That_ was a surprise. He felt distinctly... _taken care of_ , like someone had actually put him to bed on the couch instead of simply letting him crumple on an available horizontal surface. _That_ boded well with the memories he remembered of the night before--and while he wouldn’t have been opposed to waking up naked in Patrick’s bed, pleasantly sore in all the right places--something about this seemed _right_ . Maybe he was just an old-fashioned hopeless romantic, but maybe this meant he’d have a chance to woo Patrick properly and he quite liked the idea of that. The scent of coffee pulled him from his contemplation of the banged-up chucks sitting like silent sentries, and he only groaned a _little_ as he sat up. Resting his head on the tops of the cushions as he tried to catch his breath while the room stopped spinning, he spied the source of the scent.

 

“Morning.” He rasped, and Patrick looked up with surprise from the tiny breakfast nook. He gave a grunt that sounded like _hello_ if you didn’t part your lips before taking a long sip of coffee, the steam making his half-rimmed glasses fog adorably. The look on his face was a bit more human and less angry ogre when he set the mug down, clearing his throat and wiping a hand across his lips.

 

“It’s morning, that’s for sure.” He returned to his contemplation of his coffee and toast that looked like it had some seriously overcooked apple butter on it as Pete heaved himself to his feet. Setting the blanket in a heap on the couch, he took a few experimental steps and prayed to the Whiskey Gods to help him not fall on his face. Patrick watched him with a wary sort of expression that he didn’t understand, but then just tipped his head towards the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

 

Three minutes later found Pete easing himself into the straight-backed chair, cupping the mug like it would magically revive him through osmosis. Patrick was shuffling through something that looked like an outline of sorts with notes scribbled all over it in blue ink as he munched on the toast. Unsure if he was being ignored or if Patrick was only charming after 10pm, Pete shrugged and took a few long drinks of the coffee--strong and bright--and felt the life slowly beginning to leach back into him.

 

“Umm...Could I have a piece?” He pointed at the plate and the remaining two slices of toast and Patrick nodded, mumbling _yes_ as he pushed his glasses up on his nose. Smiling his thanks, Pete picked up a piece, folding it in half so the apple butter was pressed together on the inside and took a big bite. His mind was full of the talk of _apple pie_ and _hints of spice_ from Patrick’s whiskey soliloquies the night before, which made the explosion of _bitter-salty-malted_ on his tongue doubly horrible as he took his first mouthful. “What the _fuck_ _is_ _on that?!”_ He gagged, barely managing to swallow it down as he took a huge gulp of coffee, the taste lingering on his tongue like sweaty sock and skunky beer.

 

The look on Patrick’s face was deadpan, unfazed, judgemental. “It’s Marmite, what did you expect?”

 

“Apple butter?” Pete gagged, the taste was _still there_ , dammit.

 

Patrick cocked his head like he had said something in a different language. “You make butter from apples in America, now? Well, _we_ make Marmite from our beer, so…” He trailed off before letting out a sharp bellow of laughter and Pete felt that was massively unfair. It was one of the most singularly awful tastes he’d ever encountered, compounded by the fact he had been expecting apple and cinnamon dancing on his tongue, not... _whatever_ that was.

 

He considered the bread again, edging it close to his mouth with every intention on taking another bite. But then the smell hit him square in the face and he shook his head, struggling valiantly to not dry heave up the meager contents of his stomach and put it back on the plate. “Sorry… can’t do it.” He shook his head and took another sip of the coffee, trying to get the taste from his mouth and heard Patrick’s soft chuckle. Determined to redeem himself, he nodded towards the papers. “Whatcha reading?”

 

“Uhh.” There was an unexpected look of panic on the blonde’s face as he glanced down at the sheaf and compulsively shuffled it tidy, tapping the bottom edges on the table before setting it back down. Pete wondered if he’d somehow managed to go home with some sort of undercover super-spy. If so, more the pity because he was pretty sure he hadn’t been taken advantage of last night, but hey...he could dream. Patrick looked up at him, eyes full of something as near to bashfulness as he’d ever seen and waved a hand. “Work? I, uh...I work in Theatre.”

 

Pete’s felt his eyes widen, suddenly imagining Patrick in a shakespearean wig and _loving_ it. “Oh my God, are you like an actor? Are you in anything right now, I’d love to see--”

 

“ _Fuck no_ .” Patrick shook his head vehemently, biting off a chunk of marmite toast and chewing with fervor. “I’m a stage manager for the _Empire_ Theatre company.”

 

“Well I’d watch you on stage all day.” He replied, hearing the earnestness in his own voice and hoping distantly that it didn’t come off as cheesy or flirtatious… but saw he _totally_ had at the way Patrick rolled his eyes.

 

“Yes, well… finish your morning pot and take your flattery elsewhere, there’s a good lad. Some of us have jobs to get to.” Draining his cup, Patrick got up and moved to the counter, giving Pete a moment to admire the view. He was wearing blue checked boxers that did _nothing_ to hide the delightful curve of an ass to die for and a ratty white t-shirt, the neck stretched out and the hem coming unstitched. He noted the pale legs covered with a healthy dusting of blonde hairs and the hint of muscle tone that came from standing up all night, the incredible plush curve of his belly and the world’s most delectable love handles… yeah, it was safe to say the view was _incredible._ Blue eyes were regarding him with a mixture of distrust and boredom from behind the cup as Patrick sat back down, scooting the plate out of the way and spreading out the papers. It was a clear _get out_ if Pete had ever seen one… but following the rules and doing what people expected had never really been his thing.

 

He picked up the piece of marmite bread and nibbled at the edge, thrilled when he found a bit that only had a thin layer of the disgusting _socksbeerskunksalt_ spread. Chewing carefully, he ignored his mother’s voice in his head telling him not to talk with his mouth open, and plunged ahead. “Will you go out with me?” Patrick’s eyes widened in shock for a split second before narrowing down again. He shook his head, spitting out a harsh _fuck off_ before plush lips twisted into a scowl as he glared… but it didn’t quite make it to his eyes, Pete noticed. “Why not? You let just anyone sleep on that beaut of a couch?”

 

“It was _free_ , and plaid beats sitting on the floor anytime, gobshite.” Patrick groused, taking a bite of the last piece of toast and scrunching his nose in disdain at him. “You were _fluthered_ and you’re a heavy fucker for such a rawny little scrote. I didn’t exactly feel inclined to carrying you all the way back to Blessington, you should be grateful I didn’t leave you out for the Gardai, so _._ Should have known you couldn’t handle your whiskey, being a yank and all.”

 

Pete shrugged. “Well…you could help me work my tolerance up? I’ll be here for six more months, sure by the end of it I could at least _remember_ the end of the night.” He saw Patrick’s lips purse as his mind flashed back to Cian’s brown eyes twinkling as he had leaned close, asking _D’ya fancy him? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure he’s not dancing that way for Molly_ . Pete’s eyebrows had risen towards his hairline as hope thrummed beneath his lungs like a snare drum, and he had leaned right back. _So he’s...into dudes?_ A smirk had widened Cian’s thin lips as he nodded like they were conspirators. _Patrick likes pretty folk… he’s taken a tourist home a time or two, and you look his type._ Interest and hope had settled in his veins as he turned back with a wink to watch Patrick sing, hips swaying behind his guitar and a glint in his eye that made Pete’s heart skip a beat. Coming back to the kitchen table and the scowling Irishman across from him, he decided to not let on that he knew. It’d make it more fun. “Last night was really my first time outside the campus, maybe you could show me around?

 

“I’m not a fuckin’ tour guide, eejit. I get enough of you touristy types at Mickey’s.”

 

“Yet you said, and I quote, _C’mon, pal, the night is young and so are we, let’s go have a grand adventure._ ” Pete made air quotes around the repetition of Patrick’s words the night before, was gratified to see the way his eyes widened a bit.

 

“Well, it was early, and I was in a good mood.” Patrick gave him a bland look

 

“But you _smiled_ when I asked if you would go out with me last night!” That moment was one of the last things he remembered from the night, before draining the last disastrous glass of whiskey and sacrificing his memories to a hint of peat smoke and amber liquid. He leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table and putting down the piece of shit-spread toast. “ _And_ you made me breakfast--” Patrick snorted with a twinkle in his eyes, “--so c’mon. You and me, all the magic Dublin can muster, it’d be awesome!”

 

“No.” Patrick sat back, crossing his arms across his chest and giving Pete a smirk.

 

“Awwwhh, Pattycakes, you can’t--”

 

“Don’t call me that, arsehole.” He cut him off sharply, before shaking his head. “And yes, I can...just like I _can_ tell you that I’ll be working at Mickey’s Friday night, and you can come drink pisswater if you want my glorious company.” Patrick took Pete’s half-eaten piece of toast from the plate and took a bite that seemed half a challenge. “Now, _I’m_ going to get ready and _you’re_ going to wash the pots, clear?”

 

“Yes, Patrick.” Standing with a laugh, Pete collected their cups and only snuck a _few_ glances at Patrick’s ass as he walked out of the tiny kitchen to vanish through a door plastered with stickers. Fifteen minutes later, he had washed the cups, plates, _and_ the coffee pot, and was just pulling on his shoes when Patrick emerged, newsboy cap back on his head and looking ready for public consumption. He shooed Pete off the couch, folding the blanket neatly and replacing the pillows, grousing that he was lucky that his flatmate was away for the week, otherwise he’d have slept on the floor of Patrick’s room. While not as comfortable, Pete decided he wouldn’t have minded if it meant he’d have gotten to see Patrick wake up...but kept that to himself. No sense getting ahead of his Grand Plan.

 

Locking the front door behind them, Patrick let him go first down the rickety flight of stairs and _so what_ if Pete made sure to sway his hips, just a bit? It couldn’t hurt. Then they were back on the street, cars trundling by on the wrong side of the road and Patrick gave him a wry smile.

 

“Well thank you ever so for the pleasure of your company.” It would have sounded pleasant were it not for the sarcastic tone, but hey...Patrick was a sassy guy. Pete liked it. “Bus stop’s two streets that way, so… try not to die, makes for a terrible tale in the papers.” He turned and started to walk away and Pete just couldn't help it.

 

“No kiss goodbye!?” He called out, and he could see Patrick’s shoulders shake with silent laughter before he turned around to blow him a kiss that ended with a raised middle finger. Pete _thought_ there was an actual smile on his face, a twinkle in his eye....but it was hard to see at that distance. But then Patrick turned the corner and he was left with the prospect of a brisk walk through half of Dublin or catching a bus that smelled of piss...and he couldn’t be happier.

 

Friday couldn't come soon enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snitches' description of Pete is "A Hopeless Romantic Wrapped in Horny Chihuahua" so...just a bit of perspective on him in this story <3 Thank you so much for reading--won't you tell us what you think?


	3. Chapter 3

Ten o’clock in the morning was too fecking early for any sane and reasonable man to have ventured his head above the duvet, of that much Patrick was entirely convinced. There was a reason the fairies stayed hidden until a reasonable hour - because they had more sense than to try to negotiate Dublin on a Saturday morning when the pavement thronged with eager tourists. Patrick loathed and loved visitors to his city in equal measure. On the one hand, they gave him a job – two in fact, since he doubted his theatre would be quite so popular without them – but on the other, they were insanely annoying when they cluttered up the footpath to take duck face selfies. Patrick reserved a special kind of pride for his ability to win any round of Guess the Nationality based on traits he supposed were entirely stereotypical and yet almost exclusively  _ correct. _

The ones over by The Temple Bar, for example; short skirts – not that he  _ disapproved  _ of the view, exactly – tiaras and veils and ridiculous L plates strapped to their pretty little arses as they posed for photos. They were Brits. Through and through, without a shadow of a doubt. He knew it even before he had to grab one sharply before she tumbled in front of a Guinness lorry, even before she opened her mouth and declared, “Ta, pet! Eeeee! Charlotte! Look at him! He even looks like a fuckin’ leprechaun n’all!”

He didn’t look like a leprechaun  _ at all _ , it was the  _ sideburns.  _ Should’ve let her fall.

Still, he’d made it to where he said he would be at the time he agreed to make an appearance so he considered that a victory as he leaned back against the balustrade of the Ha’penny Bridge and waited, unexplained nerves turning him half-daft, for his companion to arrive. Pete, he decided, was a snake. The way he leaned against the bar long after Patrick’s set had finished, a bottle of Bud Light ever-present in his hand as Patrick had sunk more Guinness than any sensible man should. The way he smiled because – Patrick realised in the cold, grey,  _ early _ light of day – he  _ wasn’t _ wankered and Patrick, well, Patrick was definitely something close. The way he waited for a quiet moment to lean close, all dazzling teeth and sparkling eyes to whisper  _ “about that date…” _

Of course, Patrick hadn’t been  _ that _ sluthered – although he’d definitely been on the way – so the  _ “fuck off, arsehole,”  _ had still rolled easily enough from a thickened tongue. But Pete was persistent and Patrick, like all idiotic men, had an irritating tendency to think with his cock, a habit only magnified with the addition of alcohol. Each request left Patrick with fewer and less ways to say  _ “no,” _ each plea punctuated with a brush of a hand like cinder toffee against his back or his arm and accompanied by a smirk on the lips of that gobshite Cian across the table.

_ “I’m not fuckin’ taking you for a ride, yank,”  _ he snapped with no real heat behind the words, arm slung over Pete’s shoulder – just being friendly of course, it made it easy to drag him close as he made an observation, to emphasise it with a finger to the ribs – as they leaned back against their bench by the bar.  _ “So, show me the city, at least? If you won’t show me your special places…”  _ Pete had shone bright with the kind of cocky arrogance Patrick found close to irresistible. Close, but not quite.  _ “I’ll show you some special places,” _ he dropped his voice low and sultry, knew Pete would need to lean close to hear and seized the excuse to graze his lips against the ear that hovered near. Pete shivered against him, shoulders tense and skin flushed as Patrick drew breath slowly, as he grazed the tips of his fingers across the back of Pete’s neck. And, as Pete waited for the invitation to his bed that he obviously thought was coming, expectation on each rigid line of his body, Patrick continued in an almost-shout, loud enough to make him jump sharply as the heat of a blush flared his cheeks,  _ “Tomorrow at ten, on the bridge out there, I’ll show you Dublin if you stop fucking mithering me.” _

So, Patrick waited, back against the heavy railing, and phone in his hand as he pretended not to look for Pete amongst the crowds. He played his game, guessing the nationality and rewarding himself with a grin each time an accent proved him right. He could see someone standing, back to him at the end of the bridge. Someone that  _ screamed _ American in every detail from the ridiculous scarf wound over the top of a thin jacket – as though a decent coat wouldn’t be a better option to stay warm – to the stupid matching mittens. It wasn’t until he moved that Patrick caught sight of the boots and struggled to control the urge to laugh; knee high and fluffy and wound with laces, he’d seen girls out on the lash in Temple Bar that would turn their noses up at them.

The laugh, it transpired, was relatively easy to temper when the man turned fully and Patrick realised it was Pete. The knowledge of recognition was swiftly chased by a voice that snickered in his ear that he was going to have to be seen in public with a man dressed like  _ that _ . He considered his options for escape and decided O’Connell Street was probably his best bet – straight on a bus down to Trinners – and almost urged his feet to catch up with his brain when Pete clocked him. The blinding smile that stretched his face as wide as the Liffey was impossible to resist and, dragging his own feet somewhat reluctantly, he made his way to join him.

“You showed up!” Pete declared brightly, a Starbucks cup clutched in each mittened hand.

“Well, you know where I live, it seemed daft to tempt you into seeking me out, so…” Patrick left that to sink in for a moment before pointing to the cup. “And I see you brought an offering of your national dish; overpriced, slightly discoloured milk with lots of sugar.”

“You fed me Marmite,” Pete responded, shoving a cup into his hand. “Now drink your coffee and quit whining.”

Patrick took a sip and found himself met with the dubious reward of a mouthful of sweetened foam that made him grimace, “I thought you said there was coffee in here?”

“No whining,” Pete wagged a finger - possibly, it was hard to tell under the mittens - with another grin before diving into his jacket pocket and producing, much to Patrick’s consternation, one of those freebie maps of the city handed out by the open top bus companies. “So, where first? I planned a route! I thought maybe the Guinness place first - “

“A map?” He exclaimed with a bright burst of a laugh. “A fuckin’ map? And a route - it’s pronounced with an “oo” in the middle, by the way - are you fuckin’  _ serious  _ or having some kind of jape with me, pal? You remembered I’m from here, didn’t you, now? _ ” _

Pete looked at him for a moment, took a long sip from the cup that Patrick wouldn’t call coffee, just like he wouldn’t call Bud Light beer, and simply smiled. He raised his shoulders in a shrug and waved an arm to take in the city around them and when he spoke, there was just a hint of playfulness creeping at its edges, “Okay then, smartass, where are we going?”

“Dunns,” Patrick nodded briskly and set off with purpose as Pete hurried to keep up.

“Dunns?” He repeated, attempting to imitate Patrick’s lilt and failing miserably. “What’s that? Like, a museum or a gallery or - “

“It’s a shop,” Patrick interrupted, a nod towards Pete’s feet to emphasise his point. “Where they sell shoes. The kind normal people wear.”

“Hey!” Pete glowed with incredulity that sparked something warm and bright in Patrick’s chest; he was a gobshite but he was fun to banter with, that was for sure. Pretty to look at, too, with that caramel hued skin and eyes that shone amber and gold. “These are  _ high fashion _ in the States, my friend.”

“Ah, sure look it,” Patrick grinned, hidden somewhere between the peak of his hat and the collar of his coat.  _ “That _ explains the poor educational performance of your great nation…”

They continued as Patrick led the way through the city, trading insults and sneaking glances at one another. Patrick was willing to pretend it was necessary for Pete to press quite so close to him on the path and Pete seemed happy to go along with the ruse that Patrick’s hand was required in the small of his back – under the jacket but over the shirt – as they pressed through a particularly dense crowd near the river. Pete was an interested tour party, that was for sure, pointing at literally everything with a plaintive cry of  _ “what’s that?” _ and nodding with appreciation at each and every answer. He didn’t even roll his eyes too much when Pete shoved his phone into Patrick’s hands with a request for him to take a picture in front of every interesting building – and quite a few of the not so interesting ones for good measure.

“Pete, it’s a fucking off licence,” Patrick objected in irritation. “It’s where the yobs buy their White Lightning, you complete twat.”

“But it’s so  _ pretty,” _ Pete objected with the beginnings of a pout painted on his lips. Patrick shook his head then yelped sharply as he found himself grabbed in something that felt alarmingly close to a headlock, dragged in tight to Pete’s armpit as he held the phone out and away, greeting the flash with a blinding grin. “Now you’re in the shot it’s even prettier, c’mon dude,  _ smile!” _

“Get  _ off _ me, so!” Patrick struggled valiantly to free himself. It was no good, he had a distinct weight advantage but Pete had a definite actually-uses-his-gym-membership advantage so he went limp and surrendered to the inevitable. “You’re a fuckin’ gowl and I think I hate you. At least a bit.”

“You gonna admit it’s a date yet?” Pete asked with mischief in his eyes and danger in his smile.

“It’s  _ not _ a date,” Patrick insisted firmly as they turned down onto St James’ Gate and to the Guinness Storehouse. “Now, this is where you wanted to go, isn’t it? Just so we’re absolutely clear, I’m  _ not _ shelling out 14 fuckin’ euro for a ticket. Your treat, pal.”

“Buying your tickets?” Pete raised an eyebrow in a way that was irritatingly alluring. Patrick could imagine it in other circumstances and, annoyingly, he suspected Pete could tell as much. “That seems, oh, I don’t know,  _ awfully _ date-like. Wouldn’t you agree, Pattycakes?”

“Stop that, now,” Patrick warned as Pete handed over his credit card. “Else I’ll chuck you straight from the top of the Gravity Bar.

Being Pete’s tour guide proved to be an exhausting proposition. The man had all the energy of a terrier and was twice as vocal to go along with it, generating a constant stream of babbling noise about anything and everything he could see. It took Patrick – not prone to bouts of emotional sensitivity – a shockingly short amount of time to work out it was insecurity. Pete seemed to fear silence like he worried he could be lost in it, as though if he didn’t have constant engagement his companion might just wander away and find someone more interesting. It was as disconcerting as it was endearing although Patrick would admit to feeling more than slightly irritated when Pete attempted to sneak a bite of the hops hanging from the ceiling.

“How was I supposed to know they’re plastic?” He huffed as they jostled for positions by the window in the Gravity Bar, high above the rooftops with a breathtaking view over the city. “They looked pretty real to me. Hey, free Guinness though.”

“You paid 14 euro for the ticket, gobshite,” Patrick pointed out with a grin, taking a long pull of his stout. It always tasted better when it hadn’t had to leave St James’ Gate. “Still not the most expensive pint in Dublin though. Fuckin’ Celtic Tiger.”

“I’m not even gonna pretend I know what you’re talking about,” Pete smiled, a dreamy sort of a smile that softened his features as they moved to a table and leaned, looking out over the city. “It’s pretty. Like, way prettier than I imagined it would be.”

“What’re you doing here anyway?” Patrick asked, voice soft with curiosity as he watched the way something like a shadow played across Pete’s face. “You’re studying I’d guess, since you’re at the student commons, so?”

“Yeah, semester abroad,” there was still darkness at his edges, something dulled the sparkle in his eyes as he flicked his fringe out of them. “I’m majoring this time in Creative Writing. I’m supposed to, I don’t know, absorb the culture or something.”

“You don’t sound hugely enthusiastic,” Patrick swirled his half empty pint for a moment, watching the head cloud the dark of the stout. “Like, on a scale of can’t be arsed to delira and excira you seem pretty drenched in apathy about it, you get me?”

“I suppose I’m running away,” Pete shrugged with a short bark of a laugh. “Bad relationship.”

“Ah, troublesome,” Patrick could relate to that, took another mouthful of his Guinness in silent sympathy. It wasn’t that he particularly enjoyed coaxing near-strangers through their relationship woes like some kind of agony aunt, but he could lend an ear if it helped. Truth told, he was more the type to offer colourful insults about the recent ex rather than gentle sympathy… but it had worked for him so far. “Care to talk about it?”

“Oh, you know,” Pete took a mouthful of his Guinness and almost managed not to grimace. Patrick was fairly proud of him for not taking the offer of a Coke. “The typical thing. Boy goes to college, boy meets girl, boy falls hopelessly in love, boy finds girl in bed with his best friend. Tale as old as time...”

“She was getting her leg over with your best friend?” Patrick adjusted his cap, settling it a little further back on his head as he considered the revelation. “That’s rough, pal. Sorry. Still, mistakes are the portals of discovery and all that.”

“That’s pretty,” Pete nodded slowly, a touch of the magic and mischief creeping back to his gaze. “Did you just make that up?”

For a long moment, Patrick simply stared at the American, eyes narrowed as he searched his face for even a hint of sarcasm. Pete stared back with wide, innocent eyes, the hint of an approving smile soft at the corners of his lips. There was no sarcasm. None at all. He really  _ was _ that fecking stupid.

“It’s James Joyce,” he replied eventually. “You know? The man that wrote Ulysses? The one from  _ Dublin _ ? Where you’re studying  _ Creative Writing?” _

“Oh…” Pete looked thoughtful and not remotely ashamed of himself. “You keep an appropriate stash of literary quotes just tucked away for appropriate moments? Or did you learn a few just to impress me? Because that seems like first date behaviour, if I’m being totally honest.”

“Away with you now,” Patrick reached up and playfully tugged Pete’s beanie down over his eyes, the tension broken with a laugh. “It’s not a fuckin’ date.”

He took him to a little pub for lunch, tucked away down a back street with a menu that changed daily scrawled on a chalkboard above the bar. He knew the barman – an old friend from university – and shared a few words, introducing Pete who joined in with an easy sort of friendliness. He ordered a Coke instead of his standard Guinness, much to Pete’s not so subtle surprise, something whispering to him that it might be… well…  _ nice _ to spend a bit of time in Pete’s company when he  _ wasn’t _ wankered. So, as they sat at their table hidden away at the back of the bar in a neat little nook by a window that overlooked the quiet street outside, they began to tell their tales to one another.

He found out Pete was from Chicago but studying at LSU in New Orleans, the eldest of three children with a younger brother and sister, that his favourite food is pizza and no, he hadn’t tried colcannon because it sounded frightening, like a sea monster. He seemed surprised to discover it was mashed spuds with cabbage. Pete told him of a troubled youth, of a failed degree in his early twenties in a subject that didn’t inspire him, of time lost to music and hardcore bands that never quite made it out of basements and into Rolling Stone. Pete talked of some epiphany two years previously, a moment in his life where he realised he needed to do  _ something _ before he did  _ nothing _ . He told Patrick that he’d sat at his laptop researching courses and colleges, calculating finances and living expenses and how he’d thrown everything he had at his education, determined to prove that he could do something worthwhile.

Patrick watched him over their plates of cottage pie and wondered why on earth he cared so much about the life of someone that had nothing to do with him. He pondered that strangely electrified pull he felt towards Pete that put a throb in his pulse like a kick drum, that made him want to lean across the table and press their mouths together until they fused with molten heat. He wanted Pete in his bed and in his life but, he reminded himself, what was the point when he’d only leave it again six months down the line. Just like everyone else.

Pete turned the questioning around, eyebrows shooting up when Patrick admitted he was one of eight children with an older brother and sister and five younger half siblings split between his mammy and dad, divorced and both remarried. He told Pete of his job at the theatre and how he dreamt of progressing in his field, maybe moving to London to work in the West End on  _ real _ productions and not the amateurish bollocks churned out at the Empire. He wanted to work somewhere that  _ didn’t _ put on a pantomime every year, somewhere that showed the kind of plays that fired his blood in university. The ones he’d jumped on a Ryanair flight most weekends to head across the water to London to attend, spending money he didn’t have on tickets so shitty he could barely see the stage around pillars, just so he could crane his neck and revel in the beautiful way they were put together. Like poetry, he assured Pete, like the very best novels made real.

He trailed off, flushing pink and embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to ramble about his work it was just… He really did adore the theatre. He cleared his throat brusquely and scooped up a little more of his cottage pie to mask his sudden sense of shyness, a rough apology falling from his lips, “Sorry, you should stop me if I start going on.”

“No way, dude,” Pete shook his head, the cuff of his hoodie pulled over his knuckles as he propped his chin on his hand and gazed at Patrick with something that looked suspiciously like starry-eyed adoration. “I’d love to go see a play with you, bet you’d be the best for explaining all the little technical details… Oh, hey! Would that be a good date? Or wait, lunch in a pub,” and Patrick liked the way he pronounced it, “Sort of date-like, right? Are we on a date, Patrick?”

“Feck off,” Patrick laughed, a rumble from his chest as he flicked a pea at Pete from the edge of his plate with all the unerring precision of an irritating younger brother. Pete rolled his eyes with all the feigned, bored disinterest of an eldest and the tension was broken.

Pete talked him into dessert – Patrick suspected Pete could talk him into many terrible decisions given half the opportunity – and as they finished their bowls of sticky toffee pudding and custard he leaned back in his seat and considered just setting up shop for the rest of the afternoon. His belly was full, the fire was warm, he could think of worse ways to spend a cold January day than in the pub with a pretty-eyed American. But that terrier-like eagerness was back and jolting Pete restless, his eyes roving the street outside as his fingers drummed an irregular rhythm against the table top like he could beat out of his skin at a moment’s notice. Patrick thought for a minute, mentally cycling through the various places he could take Pete to indulge his desire to learn more about the city. There was Phoenix Park, or the National Gallery, the Museum of Ireland or Kilmainham Gaol. But something told Patrick they were all wrong, an idea nudging at him as he gathered his wallet and pulled on his coat.

“Where are we going?” Pete asked, as they stepped out into an afternoon already showing the early signs of daylight fading. Darkness meant magic, that wonderful cloak of velvet that folded around the city like a set dressing. Patrick smiled secretively.

“You’ll see,” he informed Pete, adjusting his cap and setting off briskly across the city.

They wound their way through the streets talking about nothings that somehow seemed important, laughing and joking and, for Patrick at least, it became harder to resist the urge to touch that mouth with its chapped dry lips. He tried not to think about pulling Pete to the side, away from the footfall of the path so he could kiss him softly, or to simply reach across the barely-existent gap between their hands to lace their fingers together. In truth the hideous mittens at least went some way to save him from that particular embarrassment. It would be like holding his little sister’s hand on the way to school. He wondered if Pete secured them in the same way she did, with a thread of wool looped through his sleeves. He hoped not.

It was only a mile or so through the city to his destination but it took forever with Pete and his godforsaken camera phone. Patrick stopped resisting, joining him in the stupid selfies with a long-suffering sigh and grimaced smile, secretly a little pleased that Pete wanted him as part of his memories. They made it eventually, Patrick gesturing with a flourish to the building ahead of them.

“The Book of Kells,” he announced, a hint of excitement in his voice.

“The what of who now?” Pete frowned in confusion that made Patrick want to slap him.

“The _Book_ of _Kells,”_ Patrick repeated, excitement and animation creeping bright into his tone as he felt one of his Fun Rants coming on, the kind that would thicken his brogue until only his nana could have a hope of understanding him. He hoped Pete would find it endearing rather than irritating because it was coming out whether he liked it or not. “Oh, Pete, it’s… it’s fuckin’ _incredible_ , so. It’s, okay, so it’s a book, you see, ancient, really feckin’ _old_ book. And the monks, they painted it and, fuck me, Pete it’s fuckin’ _beautiful_ , the most beautiful thing you’ll see in your life and they illuminate it in the exhibition and just… _Fuck_ , it’s incredible, so. Fuckin’ _incredible_ and I thought, you being a literary sort, well, I thought you’d like to see it and… They fuckin’ _buried_ it Pete, to save it from the Vikings and then they dug it up and, well, the cover was ripped off and it got damaged but eventually they brought it to Trinners and, fuck, it’s just so fuckin’ _pretty_ and…”

He trailed off, flushed and warm and hiding a little in the collar of his coat as Pete grinned at him widely, eyes twinkling like diamonds under his beanie and artfully arranged fringe.

“I got like, two words in five, dude,” Pete laughed, sharp and braying. “But you’re fucking  _ adorable _ when you get excited about something.”

“Feck off, gobshite,” Patrick mumbled, shoving him towards the entrance. “This is my treat, prepare to be amazed.”

“Taking me to see your favourite exhibit?” Pete began as they stepped into the warmth of the building. “Is this a – ”

“Just get inside and prepare to be amazed,” Patrick cut him off with a laugh, privately wondering if maybe, just  _ maybe _ , it was turning into a date and realizing with a shiver of surprise he didn’t really mind.

The exhibit was as breathtakingly striking as it always had been, the illuminated pages glowing with light and colour that warmed the ancient stone of the hall. It was a grand building, even without its precious exhibit, a long, high hall with a gallery running above, proudly beautiful and Pete seemed appropriately awed, eyes wide as he stood in front of each projected page, humming in fascination. They walked through the old library and Pete’s eyes grew even larger, raking over the shelves with their priceless, leather-bound treasure of antique books, each row crowned with a bust in glowing marble. Patrick beamed with pride at Pete’s obvious enjoyment, warm with the knowledge that he made the right choice.

They examined the exhibit until closing time, the huge windows cast in darkness and the frigid night air sharp against their cheeks as they stepped outside.

“Good choice?” Patrick asked quietly as they strolled back through the city and towards the Liffey.

“Amazing,” Pete agreed, his eyes flicking to Patrick’s hand with that same longing Patrick had felt earlier. Patrick tucked his hands neatly into his pockets and took him a little out of their way to look at the Molly Malone statue. He even sang the accompanying song, low and soft so no one would think he was either busking or a total arsehole. Pete smiled, a tiny curve of his lips with his eyes like molten gold under the streetlights and Patrick didn’t want the night to end. He knew it should; he had so much work to catch up on and a visit to his mammy to squeeze in before he could call his day complete so, with a pang of regret, he led the way back to Pete’s accommodation, pausing at the end of the road.

“Well,” he began softly, gesturing vaguely. “Got you home this time, so.”

“Yeah,” Pete agreed, pausing in that awkward way of someone that doesn’t know how to keep a conversation in motion that they don’t want to end. “I’ve had the  _ best _ time, you’re… you’re a really great tour guide.”

“Ah, go on,” Patrick laughed. He wanted Pete’s number. He should  _ ask _ for Pete’s number… “Well, uh, I need to make tracks, so…”

“Right, of course,” Pete reached for his phone and Patrick wondered if he was going to demand another  _ fucking _ selfie as he scrolled through it quickly before holding it out with a shy smile. “Could I… have your number? Just in case I need to know the best place to buy new shoes, you know?”

Patrick grinned wide and glowing, taking the phone and tapping in his number before handing it back and shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. He needed to leave. He was making an arse of himself.

“Okay,” he nodded with certainty, began to turn back towards his flat. “Well, I’m on my way, now. I’ll be seeing you, Pete.”

“Wait!” Pete caught hold of his sleeve with a grasp that seemed to burn its way straight through the stupid mitten and Patrick’s coat. “Look… About… well, about that date? I mean it, Patrick, let me take you out some time. Please?”

Patrick paused, eyes fixed on the hand clad in grey wool and gripped into his arm. He paused and he tried to think about the things that  _ could _ be, rather than the shit that  _ had _ been. He reminded himself that not everyone was the same, the wise advice of his mammy that he had to let someone in eventually and wondered why the fuck Pete had to be from fucking  _ Chicago.  _ He shook himself out of it, raised his eyes to lock with shining gold and wanted to laugh as the tale about leprechauns and pots of the stuff popped unbidden into his head.

“Right,” he nodded slowly and tried to stop his heart from pounding. “A date? Well… I’m free next Thursday, if it’ll shut your gob about it.”

“Thursday,” Pete repeated, the smile glowing from him like sunrise over Dublin bay. “I think I can make it.”

“I’ll see you then,” Patrick grinned back, wide and foolish and once again, he turned to walk away. Pete didn’t let go of his sleeve, holding on with the tenacity of a terrier with a deathgrip on a trouser leg.

“Come on, ‘Trick,” he murmured, voice curling around them like smoke. ‘Trick? No one had ever called him  _ that  _ before. Pat or Paddy, sure, he got those a lot, but  _ ‘Trick? _ He wasn’t one for nicknames but maybe that wasn’t so bad. He’d give it time, see if it took. “Don’t I get a goodnight kiss after all that?”

Patrick cocked his head, considered those chapped lips once more and wondered how they might taste. He leaned in towards the expectant pout, ducking to the side at the last moment to brush his mouth against the rough grate of a lightly stubbled cheek, whispering softly into Pete’s ear, “Make it a good date, so, and maybe you’ll catch a shift.” He pulled away, pleased to see good humor dancing in the golden eyes, and felt delighted heat rising to his own cheeks at the sight. “Goodnight, Pete.” He murmured, freeing himself from the now-slack grip on his arm before he did something  _ stupid _ , something impulsive and  _ wonderful _ . Something he’d promised he wouldn’t do again. The light in Pete’s eyes was enough, for tonight at least. 

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, Pete’s burst of laughter ringing in his ears as he imagined those lips tucked up in a smile as wide as the night sky above him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that and that you'll be back for their first date next time.
> 
> As always, feedback is very much appreciated so leave a comment or hit the kudos button if you haven't already!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long awaited date :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends!!!!! *waves* I'm taking a breather from building bookcases (*why* am I not just watching Netflix while on break like everyone else?) and decided I'd take a bit and post this. We've worked long and hard on this bit, to hopefully make it as delightful as you can imagine, so we certainly hope you enjoy!! <3

 

 

The problem with taking Dublin’s best tour guide on a date, Pete quickly realized, was that he probably knew  _ all  _ the good places. Meanwhile,  _ he _ had only been in the country for less than a month, so all he knew was what UrbanSpoon said was good and the internet promised to be a “foolproof night out.” 

 

He had asked a few of his classmates where they would take someone on a first date, and most of their answers had been very canned and expected. Overwhelmingly he had been recommended to take  _ her _ to Grafton Street to browse the shops. Pete laughed at the image of Patrick traipsing through little stores, crying out in excitement about chintzy scarves and eyeglass cases with illustrations of dogs on them. 

 

No, this date had to be  _ perfect _ \--it had to be the ideal mix of fun and flattery, of romance and ease, of laughter and deep conversation. It felt like he was back on the soccer field for the first time in a while, stretching mental muscles of romance and chivalry he’d let languish since Nicole. Since she had started insisting on “staying in” and sex that ended in eyes that wouldn't meet his and an excuse to leave the bed empty. Since she had scoffed at his attempts to have a cheesy picnic in the park and had taken to disappearing during parties, appearing hours later disheveled and breathless.  He should have seen it...it shouldn’t have been the thunderbolt of shock to the gut when he walked into a frat house bedroom to find her and Byron staring at him from under the covers in a position he knew intimately. He should have…

 

Brushing the thoughts of his traitorous ex-best friend and ex-girlfriend from his mind, he breathed out like his therapist said to do-- _ bad out, good in, Pete. Over and over again-- _ and pushed his brain on to better pursuits. Like planning the perfect date. 

 

Here was his conundrum: a large part of him really just wanted  _ time _ with Patrick. Lunch in the pub before the Book of Kells had been unequivocally his favorite part of the day as he listened to Patrick tell him about his family, blabber on about theater like most people did about their kids or cars. It might be cheesy, but for all the sass and sparkle surrounding the enigmatic little Irishman, he wanted to see more of that easy, calm, contented Patrick. He wanted to listen to his gloriously-brouged, beautifully-inflected words and watch the way his lips moved, the way his eyes narrowed as he thought. This plan brought certain dangers, of course--the strong possibility his self-control would fail and he’d lean across to kiss those golden-gilded lips, as well as his own strong tendency towards  _ oversharing _ . 

 

However, he  _ also _ knew that he had thought for  _ days _ about the excitement in Patrick’s eyes as he told him about the Book of Kells...at least, he was fairly sure that’s what the trainwreck of barely-English had been about. But  _ God _ , the way his accent came out strong and swinging had done  _ something _ in his pants that he wasn’t ashamed to admit he’d thought about in the shower more than once. The idea of Patrick’s words slurring and gasped with that delightful cadence... _ God. _ Still, more than just his admittedly carnal attraction to that side of Patrick, he wanted to see him laugh, to let loose and just enjoy the evening. He had gotten the sense in the three times that he’d been  _ graced _ with Patrick’s presence, as the fiery blonde had put it, that he held back a lot. He kept his desires and dreams buttoned up tight like a dragon hoards his treasure, his sorrows and hopes tucked under his armor lest they be broken and exposed. He wanted to see Patrick just let it go...and clearly alcohol wasn’t the way to make that happen. Leastwise, even if it was, there was no way Pete could keep up until Patrick got there, the heavyweight alcohol champion he was. 

 

Walking slowly through campus, hands jammed into his pockets because he had forgotten his mittens  _ again _ , he thought, and thought, and thought. What was the perfect date to impress an Irishman who clearly knew an overwhelming amount more than he did about the city, who was clearly difficult to please,  _ and _ would put them on an even footing? Because Pete was certainly not above any sort of advantage he could find to convince Patrick to give him a chance beyond a single “real” date. He mused about a restaurant a fellow exchange student had told him about--a kid named Roberto from Los Angeles--who frequently bemoaned the lack of quality mexican food in their exile. The idea of confronting Patrick with a cuisine he might not be intimately familiar with held great appeal...flipping open his phone, he noted the place was within a comfortable walking distance. Just the ideal length to necessitate his hands tucked into the pockets of Patrick’s wool coat for warmth, he thought with a grin before a poster caught his eye--stapled to the commons announcement board with its thick cardboard edge flapping in the wind. 

 

_ Greater Dublin Fair--St. Stephen’s Green. 14-23 January. Games! Food! Rides! Shops! _

 

He felt his heart give an excited extra thump as he felt it settle into his bones.

 

A fair. Perfect. 

 

_ ~//~ _

 

To say he was  _ excited _ would be putting it lightly--he’d been practically buzzing with anticipation since he had texted Patrick to tell him hello...then realized that he’d neglected to text him  _ at all _ while he had been deliberating over date ideas.  _ That _ had been why Patrick hadn’t texted him-- _ he hadn’t had his number _ . So in his trademark fashion, his first three texts had been a barrage of apologies and crying emojis, explanations and declarations of his undying affection. Patrick’s reply had been concise and very apt: < _ here I was, just pondering if it was possible to be stood up if you don’t know where the date is _ > and Pete felt a bit of a tingle go down his spine. Even if he  _ had _ fucked up...Patrick had been  _ thinking about their date _ . That was a very good sign. 

 

<< _ nonono Trick id nvr stnd u up, ur 2 prtty 2 b alon> _

 

The reply came back ten minutes later as Pete was just unlocking the door of his dorm room. < _ Flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere, idiot. Where/when do you want to meet up?> _

 

Pete giggled to himself--he’d seen the way Patrick’s cheeks had flushed just a shade pinker whenever he had complimented his sideburns, the spun gold of his hair, the blue of his eyes. He wasn’t  _ totally _ immune to some patented Pete Wentz Charm. 

 

<< _ tmrw @ 5 ok? @ th bridge?>> _

 

His phone stayed dark and silent for nearly an hour, during which time Pete amused himself pointedly  _ not _ freaking out about if Patrick hated him or was trying to find a way to politely extricate himself from the date. Instead he wondered what Patrick was doing on a Wednesday--he realized he really had no idea what a Stage Manager did beyond...manage the stage? He made a mental note to ask Patrick on their date, but imagined him perhaps painting a set piece, tongue poking out from between plush lips in determination, or directing the actors to  _ feel more _ . His phone lit up with a reply and he flipped it open so fast he nearly dropped it. 

 

< _ That’s fine. What’s the plan?> _

 

Pete giggled to himself, the first part of his master plan unfolding exactly as he had imagined it. 

 

<< _ dnt u wrry ur prtty hed bout tht jst wear coat n cmfy shoes n prpre 2 b AMAZED> _

 

He cackled as he read Patrick’s reply a moment later. 

 

< _ Fine. Also, would it seriously kill you to use vowels, or punctuation maybe?> _

 

Kicking his shoes off he plopped down to the couch and pulled his battered notebook from his backpack, replying one-handed like a champion. 

 

_ <<Cn’t. M allrgic>> _

 

_ ~//~ _

 

Thursday night at precisely 4:55pm, he was standing at the same spot he’d waited for Patrick before their whirlwind tour of the city. This time, he had worn something less  _ fashion-forward _ , because the entire point of that outfit had been to make Patrick roll his eyes and let out that delightful laugh. Tapping a combat-booted foot, he jammed his right hand deeper into his pocket--forgetting his gloves had been a calculated move this evening--and wondered if Patrick would show. 

 

“Colour me shocked you own  _ normal _ shoes, so.” Came the wry remark from his side, and his head whipped around to take in the sudden appearance of his  _ date _ . He couldn’t help but gasp--Patrick in a navy pea coat, subdued grey plaid scarf and a black flat cap was just  _ too _ much for him to take in  _ and  _ reply all at once. 

 

“Wow.” He stuttered at Patrick--who promptly rolled his eyes--and then remembered  _ Step One. _ Holding out a single red rose in the frozen hand that he hadn’t been able to tuck into his pocket, he gave his most charming smile. “For you--thanks for coming.”

 

Something flitted across Patrick’s face then, the curve of his lips easing out into the tiniest bit of surprise, of shock. He took the rose with a shake of his head, hair feathering along his collar, and gave Pete probably the least sassy smile he’d been graced with to this point. “Thank you.” He murmured as he broke the long stem off, leaving the requisite length to tuck the remainder into his coat lapel. “Looking proper now, so?” 

 

“Perfect.” Pete grinned, holding out his arm for Patrick, who rolled his eyes as he slipped a gloved hand through, snugging their bodies hip-to-hip. 

 

“So, were’r you takin’ me on this fine evening? You fought hard for this so I’ll admit to being a touch intrigued to see what you’ve come up with.” 

 

Shaking his head, he steered them off the bridge and gave Patrick a sidelong wink. “Can’t tell you. It’s a surprise.” He harrumphed at that, grumbling that nothing good ever came from a surprise, but Pete simply relished the feeling of Patrick’s arm tucked around his own, and led them down the bridge. 

 

Patrick’s indulgent silence didn’t remain, however, when they rounded the corner on Grafton street and the Green came into view. St. Stephen’s Green, normally a serene paradise of beautifully procured flowerbeds and children laughing on the swing sets was no longer a lush eden. Lights were strung every which way, a gaudy sign proclaimed  _ Welcome to the Greater Dublin Fair!, _ and the scent of burgers and grease wafted towards them along with Patrick’s groan. 

 

“The  _ Fair? _ Are you serious?  _ This _ is the grand date you’ve hankered for so hard?” 

 

Shaking his head as he nearly dragged him through with a laugh, Pete took the opportunity to press his lips to Patrick’s ear, ostensibly so he could hear him over the sudden hubbub, but also because he needed just a little bit of contact to tide him over. “Don’t knock it before you try it, ‘Trick. Besides, I’ve always thought a few rounds of whac-a-mole was one of the best ways to  _ truly _ get to know someone.” 

 

~//~

 

Nearly an hour later found them standing in a line that Patrick wouldn’t stop grousing about, hands shoved in their pockets for warmth as they wound slowly through the chainlink-bounded path. A kid kept bumping into a the back of Pete’s knees, but he ignored it as he flapped his hands with his story. 

 

“No, like  _ seriously _ . We went to Busch Gardens and oh my god, they have this rollercoaster where you lay down on your stomach like Superman and hang under the track?! It’s amazing and—“

 

“Wait, now,  _ Busch _ Gardens?” Patrick stopped him with an impatient wave of his hand. “The makers of your national pisswater have a  _ theme park?” _

 

“Yeah, it’s fucking  _ awesome _ .” Laughing at the bored disbelief on Patrick’s face, Pete gave him a look. “Like, what else could you want but roller coasters and beer on a hot day? It’s the best.” Patrick merely replied with a lofty  _ hmmm _ , like Pete was trying to convince him the sky was actually purple, tapping his hands within his pockets against his thighs in a move Pete almost thought were  _ nerves. _ But no, it couldn’t be. Patrick was eyeing the ride—he had called it a  _ waltzer,  _ which Pete thought was both adorable and ridiculous—and he couldn’t help but ask again. “You sure you’re okay with going on this? I’m not gonna die or something if we just went on the Ferris wheel. We could hold hands and kiss like a cute couple and—“

 

“ _ No. _ ” Patrick glared, brows lowering and his nose scrunching up adorably with fury. “It’s grand, and I’m not getting on the feckin’ big wheel like a five year old swinging their feet.” 

 

He opened his mouth to argue the point, brain suddenly reminding him such a thing would be  _ awfully romantic _ ...but then they were being hustled into the technicolor ride, strapped into place by an apathetic teenager and then the giant contraption was groaning reluctantly to life. Pete threw his head back and yowled in excitement as it began to spin, thrusting them skyward before wrenching them to the side sharply. He laughed and yelled until, on the final enthusiastic whirl, he was yanked from his adrenaline rush by an ice-cold hand grabbing his own, fingers scrabbling madly for purchase against the metal bar between them. He fought gravity to look over and see Patrick’s eyes squinted shut, teeth gritted, and a distinctly green cast to his face growing more pronounced by the second. 

 

“Trick? You okay—“

 

He was interrupted by the metallic clank of the bars releasing, automatedly freeing them from their spots, and then Patrick was barreling from the ride like it was on fire. Jumping to his feet he saw Patrick’s hat had miraculously fallen and  _ stayed _ on the floor, so with a shake of his head, he nabbed it before jogging in the direction his date had vanished. 

 

“Trick! Patrick?” He called, scanning the crowds for a crown of dirty blonde hair...but then through a gap in the throng of people, he spotted him. Head between his knees on a bench, fingers laced over his head and breathing hard. A wave of sympathy and chagrin washed through him as he pushed his way over, crouching in front of the huddled figure gingerly. “Hey, are you okay?” 

 

There was a groan accompanied by a shake of his head and Patrick ground out, “You might want to shift a few steps left. You’re right in the line of fire, so.” 

 

With a laugh he couldn’t help, Pete moved away to sit next to him on the bench, gently unlacing Patrick’s fingers from behind his head and taking his hand. He rubbed soothing circles over the back of his palm, knowing from lots of past experience not to touch someone’s back who was trying not to puke. After a few more long, deep breaths, Patrick sat back, eyes closed and lips parted just slightly and Pete had to hold himself back from pressing a kiss to them, slipping his fingers into the hair feathering at his collar and rubbing cold thumbs across flushed cheeks. But he decided against it when pale eyelids fluttered open to reveal blue, blue eyes glaring at him with all their diminished might. He feared for his life for a split second before remembering—and with a flourish, he plopped the rescued hat on his head and gave him a hopeful smile.

 

“Uhh...so I’m guessing we’re not going to be going to Six Flags anytime soon.” 

 

There was another groan from Patrick and a few more deep breaths through his nose, eyes clenching shut again as he shook his head like he could shake away the nausea. “I haven’t got a clue what that is, but I’m guessing it involves more rides like that so I’ll just say no right now.” 

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t like them? We didn’t have to go on it, crazy.” 

 

The glare was back in full force, before his eyes flicked down as he seemed to notice for the first time Pete’s gentle hold on his hand.  “I hadn’t been on one since I was a boy, how the hell would I know they still fuckin’  _ hate _ me?” 

 

Pete just shook his head, tugging at his hand gently. “Think you can get up? I think I saw a place that had hot tea--maybe that’d help?” There was a grumble and a grunt from his companion, but then Patrick was shifting and Pete was pulling him to his feet, refusing to relinquish his hand for  _ health reasons _ . Patrick didn’t seem to mind, leaning on him just a tiny bit as they wound through the crowd.

  
  


~//~

  
  


“Okay, so  _ maybe _ the ride wasn’t the best idea, but admit you had fun.  _ Nobody _ can be upset when they’ve won that weird hook a duck game as many times as you did.” Pete needled at Patrick as they walked out the opposite side of the fair, departing the Greene and heading towards Harcourt Street. Patrick rolled his eyes, hand coming up to to tip the brim of his hat up a smidge, and Pete decided it was worth a shot. As his hand swung back down to hang by his side, Pete intercepted it, fingers sliding between Patrick’s like they were meant to be there, like they belonged. They were--as expected--icy cold in the brisk weather, but soft with calluses adding a delightful bit of scrape where they brushed against his knuckles. Patrick looked at him, mouth opening to no doubt deliver a sassy scolding before yanking his hand away...but then he closed it, shaking his head and Pete could have sworn he saw a smile there. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, he swept his thumb over Patrick’s wrist just once...and he felt like there should have been fireworks exploding around him for all the feelings that shuddered through him at once. 

 

“Yes, well. It was  _ something,  _ that’s for sure.” Patrick looked at their hands sidelong before meeting Pete’s eyes. “And where to now? Or was that the whole experience?” 

 

“Oh no, not even close.” Pete grinned as they turned west to head towards Camden Row and he swept his hand out in a gesture he hoped made him look like a grand ringmaster. “We have a tour of the senses to embark on first.” 

 

“Hope you’re not expecting me to fuckin mount you on the table or some such nonsense,” Patrick scowled good-naturedly, “contrary to your fine nation, we have  _ laws _ here about things like  _ decency.”  _

 

He couldn't help the laugh--and the resultant twitch in his pants--that bubbled up as he shook his head. “It’s not  _ all _ shirtless hippies and women burning their bras in the States, you know. Utah doesn’t even serve alcohol most places.” 

 

“Now  _ there’s _ a fine reason everyone's mad as a box of frogs over there.” 

 

They talked and jibed at each other as they wound through streets and back alleys, each one whispering temptations at him. A dimly lit alcove here, a brick ledge there...so many perfect places to pull Patrick by the hand and kiss him senseless. Pete was pretty sure he’d been caught several times already, eyes lingering too long on Patrick’s lips, but he couldn’t  _ help  _ it. But each time, he pushed away the thought--their first kiss had to be  _ more _ , it had to be something perfect and romantic, something fitting of the fiery little Irishman with the dancing blue eyes and the magic that sometimes seemed to flit around him. 

 

Finally, they turned down the street Roberto had told him to look for--the grocery with the green sign on the corner his clue--and he straightened up, grinning. “Hope you’re ready to have your tastebuds dazzled, because we’re going  _ South of the Border!”  _

 

Patrick cocked a cynical eyebrow at him as they came in view of the restaurant--welcoming yellow light spilling from the windows along with a hint of snazzily-played guitar. “You realize the border you’re speaking about is thousands of miles away, and not adjacent to Ireland at all, yes?” 

 

“Semantics.” Pete waved his hand with a grin before taking hold of the ornate door handle and pulling it open. “Beauty before bangs,” he intoned with a false sense of gravity and Patrick let out a bright laugh. 

 

“Well, at least you’ve that right.” 

 

They were led to a table in the corner, by the window and almost instantly he waiter came over with glasses of water in cups ringed with a cobalt stripe and a basket of tortilla chips. Pete--before Patrick could protest--ordered two tequila shots to start. But as the waiter (he was fairly certain his name was Roberto as well) moved away, Patrick glared at him from under the brim of his hat. “Really now?” 

 

“You gotta start things off right! And I got us  _ good  _ tequila, doesn't worry. I’m not making you drink like...warm Cuervo Gold.” He shuddered at the thought, but the assurance made no difference to Patrick’s look of distaste that he quickly hid behind a polite smile as the waiter set down the bowl of limes, two shots that were  _ large _ Pete noted, and motioned at the salt shaker at the opposite side of the table. He walked away with a knowing grin and Pete grinned like he’d just had the crown jewels set in front of his date. “See! Don Julio Blanco. Because I’m classy.” 

 

Patrick picked up his shot and sniffed at it before pulling away like he’d been stabbed in the nose, setting it down with a  _ thunk _ . “God that smells like...I don’t know what. Socks? Bleach? Wager it won’t taste any better.” 

 

A sneaking, shocking,  _ delightful _ realization flickered through him. “Wait, have you seriously never tried tequila?” 

 

“Why would I, when I’ve got Teelings?” He glared like Pete was trying to persuade him to lick a battery. “I’m familiar with the idea, but that’s as far as I’ve ever cared to go.” 

 

Shaking his head in bewilderment, Pete heaved out a theatrical sigh before suddenly reversing to a ear-to-ear grin. “Well then let’s take your tequila virginity together, shall we?” Patrick just continued to glare first at Pete, then at the bowl between them. 

 

“You’re seriously not going to make me suck on a lime like an eejit, are you?” 

 

“Yep!” Pete replied with a grin, reaching for the salt shaker with one hand and Patrick’s hand with the other. “But first....” He lowered his head and licked a broad stripe across the back of Patrick’s palm, unable to help but make it look as dirty as he could. Making sure to flutter his eyes upwards to meet Patrick’s suddenly-widening ones, he flicked the tip of his sharpened tongue across the smooth skin as he pulled away with what he was sure could be called a  _ shit-eating _ grin. There was  _ definitely  _ a flush to Patrick’s cheeks now, and he could see the motion of his throat working behind the collar of his dark-blue dress shirt as he just stared at Pete for a long moment. 

 

“That’s disgusting.” He murmured, sounding wholly unconvinced, and Pete counted that as a win on his mental scoreboard as he held out his hand. 

 

“You’re not gonna make me lick my own hand, right?” He lowered his head, giving Patrick the puppy-dog eyes that his mother simply couldn’t resist--all sorrowful topaz ringed in smudged kohl. “That’d just be... _ ungentlemanly _ , don’t you think? When I licked  _ yours _ first?” He fluttered his eyelashes, hoping against hope he wouldn’t get a faceful of well-rested tequila for his efforts…

 

“For the love of--” Patrick murmured under his breath, glancing around the restaurant before taking Pete’s hand and licking a broad stripe in return. Pete couldn’t help the way his cock  _ definitely  _ gave an interested twitch at that, but his eyes were riveted to the baby-pink tip of Patrick’s tongue as it slid across his skin, the way he licked his lips as he straightened up, like he wanted to spread the taste of Pete’s skin further…

 

But then a pale hand was shaking salt on the back of his own, before picking up the glass and lime, fixing him with haughty blue gaze before murmuring “ _ Sláinte _ .” Pete shook his head heavily and stopped him with wide eyes. 

 

“No, dude. We’re going South of the Border remember?  _ Salud _ .” 

 

Patrick just rolled his eyes, clinking the rim with Pete’s before licking his hand--Pete couldn't help but delay taking his own shot just as split second to watch  _ that _ \--before tipping the glass back like a true barman. They slammed the glasses down in time and Pete was  _ delighted  _ at the look on Patrick’s face. 

 

“ _ Oh _ ...fuck that’s  _ damn _ good.” 

 

~//~

 

Menus handed over twenty minutes later, Pete rested his chin on the heel of his hand and fixed his date with a look. “Okay. So this is my favorite part.” 

 

“Where we stare at the passers-by and mock their outfits?” Patrick grinned at him evilly and Pete couldn’t help but laugh-- _ God  _ his sass was something to behold. 

 

“No. We play the  _ get-to-know-you _ game.” He pulled a battered piece of paper from the inner pocket of his coat. “Otherwise known as twenty questions.” 

 

Patrick eyed the paper like it was a death sentence, or had been sprayed down with smallpox. “I don’t know--”

 

“Oh come on, ‘Trick. I know you probably love being an enigmatic evil genius who gives great tours and has magical powers of turning green as a shamrock after rides, but I want to get to know you.” He batted his eyelashes again for good measure, since it has worked so well last time, and leaned forward. “‘Cause believe it or not, you’re pretty cool.” 

 

Patrick grumbled some more, sipping his margarita--he had quietly complained to Pete when it had arrived that  _ no respectable _ drink was that damn pink!--but pushed the paper away with a grudging sigh. “How about we just trade. Question for me, question for you like civilized adults, not fuckin’ school children.” 

 

“Perfect!” Pete snagged a chip, dipping it in the salsa before cramming it in his mouth. “I’ll go first. What’s your favorite color? Mine’s purple.” 

 

“Orange.” Patrick replied, taking a chip for himself. “Who was your first sweetheart?” 

 

Unable to help the laugh, Pete sat back and chuckled. “Rosie McGinn. She punched me when I tried to kiss her when I was five, then called me a baby when I cried.” Patrick laughed with him, and on it went. Pete discovered Patrick’s favorite book was  _ A Moveable Feast _ , he was an avid Star Wars fan, hated lima beans, and played more instruments than he had fingers. He told Patrick about the time he’d jumped off the roof of his parents house with a pool umbrella and broken his ankle, about playing soccer in college the first time and getting the stomach flu the day of the big game, and argued that  _ Ride the Lightning _ was Metallica’s best album. 

 

Their food arrived--fish tacos for Pete and a wet burrito for Patrick--and he looked at his date as they took their first bites. His cheeks were  _ still  _ a bit pink, and he mentally congratulated himself for finding the liquor that his bartending-crush wasn’t immune to--and he couldn't help but love the way his pink tongue flitted out to lick sauce from the corners of his mouth now and then. He decided, bolstered by his own shockingly blue margarita and the greasy courage only beer-battered fish could bring, to ask the question he’d been wondering for nearly two weeks now. “So why are you single?” 

 

Blue eyes came up from where they’d been pinned to the burrito, trying to maximize the meat-to-tortilla ratio on the next bite, and Patrick scowled. “That wasn’t on your little list, I’m pretty sure, so ask me something  _ normal _ .” He put the bite in his mouth and then shook his head, covering his mouth as he spoke with it full in a way that made Pete give a mental chuckle. “No, you know what. I’ll ask one now since you’re given to idiotic blatherings. Have any pets back home?” 

 

“Not now.” Running a chip through his beans, he shoved it in his mouth. “We had a dog growing up--Dee Dee--she was awesome. Little Sheltie, but she died of cancer when I was twelve.” Patrick made an empathetic noise of sorrow, and nodded understandingly. 

 

“Had a budgie for a while when I was a chiseler. My brother named it cookie dough for some idiotic reason, and one day I came home from school and it was out of its cage and--” He gave a sardonic eye roll. “--Cookie dough flew away.” 

 

They finished off their meal in companionable conversation....breaking away from Pete’s question-and-answers to when Patrick asked if he’d seen Dexter. That resulted in an explosion of opinion from them both--arguing about nature versus nurture in children and if the death of his mother was really the reason for what he became. They argued about the Trinity killer--Patrick thought season three was by far the best--while Pete championed Lila as Dexter’s true soulmate. It only ended when the waiter brought their checks and Pete--in a sleight-of-hand move that he was quite proud of--grabbed it from under Patrick’s nose and smoothly slid a fifty into the billfold. 

 

“You arse, I can pay--” Patrick scowled and started to argue, but Pete shook his head with a smirk. 

 

“Nope. This is  _ my _ date, so it’s  _ my _ treat.” 

 

A pair of blue eyes glared at him from under the brim of a lowered cap, before Patrick brightened up with a diabolical gleam to his smile. “Well….in that case. I have an idea, if you’re game on me derailing it just a smidge.” 

 

Thirty minutes later found them sequestered in a far corner of a bar that belonged to a cousin of one of Patrick’s friends from college, the bottle of Espalon Reposado they had picked up from the store on the way and two shot glasses between them. Pete uncorked the bottle--with several jibes and comments about his weak, skinny arms from his companion--and poured them two shots. 

 

“Okay. Here’s how this is gonna go. I ask you a question-- _ any question _ \--and if you don’t want to answer, you have to take a shot. If I don’t answer, I have to take a shot, deal?” 

 

Picking up the glass, Patrick held it out with a wry twist to his lips. “Better start off right, then, so?” Pete laughed and picked up his own glass, clinking the rim before tipping it back. 

 

“I seriously can’t believe you’ve never had tequila before.” 

 

“Well, if I did - and I can’t say it’s not a distinct possibility - it was after so much booze in Uni that I didn’t know what I was drinking anymore. I’ll believe I supped nail varnish if you told me I did at three in the morning back then.” He replied with a grin, and Pete couldn't help but wish he had known  _ that  _ Patrick. One flush with dreams and liquor, eyes starry-bright and full of hopes for the future. Not that he didn’t adore  _ this  _ Patrick--all sass and snark, sharp-tongued and confident--but after the two weeks of his company, he’d knew that Patrick was also cautious, guarded about anything too deep. He seemed to pull back just as he was opening up, to wrap whatever it was that had hurt him in a layer of bright smiles and pointed insults, and Pete just  _ wanted _ to know how to push past that. How to peel back the layers and see the Patrick he felt certain was under there...one that smiled when you kissed him good morning, one that might cry if his favorite playwright or singer died, one that merely blushed at a compliment while his lips curved up towards eyes full of adoration. 

 

Shaking off his musings, he poured them another shot each and then put his elbows on the table, leaning close. “So, Patrick Stumph, you go first. Ask me  _ anything.” _

 

Fixing him with a contemplative stare, Patrick tilted his head just a bit to the side. “Ever given a lap dance?”

 

“Um, yeah?” Pete laughed and shook his head. “These hips don’t lie, baby. I’ll wear a garter belt and grind on you all night long.” He was gratified to see the blush on Patrick’s cheeks, and he was fairly certain  _ wasn’t _ because of the alcohol. Affecting a pose he hoped conveyed deep thought, he asked his question. “Have you ever dressed up in ladies clothes?” 

 

“Of course I have, you doyle.” Patrick laughed, leaning back to let out a good chuckle. “I’m in  _ theater _ . We had a whole module in Uni where we had to play nothing but opposite-gendered roles.” 

 

“Bet you look good in a dress.” Pete waggled his eyebrows in a overaffected parody of lust, and Patrick rolled his eyes. 

 

“You bet your feckin’ arse I do.” He smirked and Pete was seized  _ again _ with the deep desire to lean over the table and press his lips to Patrick’s--to swallow his sassy comments and leave him sighing. His eyes flicked down to his lips for a moment before he shook his head and looked away...chastising himself for not remembering The Grand Plan. 

 

“Fine, my turn. Why are you single?” 

 

Patrick glared and shook his head as he reached for his shot, knocking it back with the barest of shudders before fixing Pete with a look of bored disinterest. “It’s a sign of insanity to ask the same question over and over, you know, when you know you won’t get an answer.” Pete shrugged and just smiled. 

 

“You’re kinda awesome, and I just can’t figure it out. I’m persistent, if you haven’t gotten that by now. I’m like a dog smelling a bone.” 

 

Patrick murmured  _ literally _ with a leer and they both laughed, tension broken as he re-poured his shot. “Fine. What do you like in bed?” 

 

He could feel his eyebrows rising a bit, but Pete couldn’t deny he was excited about this line of questioning as he rolled the still-full shot glass around a bit on its base. “ _ Well well well _ , Patrick...asking about sex, huh? I like it.” He held up his shot in mock salute. “A shot before we plunge in, yeah?” Patrick rolled his eyes but nodded, and together they knocked back the light gold liquid together. Swiping his hand across his mouth, Pete sat back and fixed his eyes on the table’s other occupant...who, by his count was three shots up and  _ definitely _ starting to look a bit tipsy. “Honestly, I like pretty much everything. I’d top, I’d bottom...as long as we’re both having fun, I’m more than good.” He shook his head as he considered the best way to make Patrick understand. “You’re--you’re really awesome, and I can’t imagine you’re any less awesome in bed, so…” He grinned at Patrick, who was staring at him with eyes that he dared to say almost looked  _ intrigued _ . “So yeah. You can do basically whatever with me. Tie me up, put me in a dress, smack my--”

 

“--Okay, yes.” Patrick coughed a strangled little noise, a flush  _ definitely _ working its way across his cheeks, but he met Pete’s gaze evenly. “That was  _ more _ than enough of an answer to keep you from having to take a shot,  _ thank you _ .” 

 

“Fine. What do  _ you _ like in bed, my favorite lucky leprechaun?” Pete batted his eyelashes and pointedly ignored the way Patrick’s eyebrows lowered. 

 

“Swear to Christ I’ll shove the bottle up your arse and be done with it if you call me that again.” He grumbled and Pete just smiled all the sweeter, gratified when Patrick huffed out a grumpy sigh and shook his head. “I’m not bottoming for anyone any time soon. Then again, I’ve never had any complaints, so I don’t have any plans of changing.” 

 

Pete nodded, not surprised. “Makes sense, considering.” 

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Patrick cocked his head to the side and gave Pete a look like he’d just said he liked to lick between people’s toes. “ _ Considering?” _

 

“Nah-uh.” Pete shook his head with a grin spreading bright across his face. “It was my turn to ask a question. So...I’ll answer that  _ if _ you take a shot.” 

 

“I’m not going to wake up with cocks drawn on my face and no trousers on, am I?” Patrick groused, but reached for the glass with a slightly unsteady hand as Pete shook his head in the negative. “Well fine, then. Here’s to your health, you bastard.” Patrick  _ winked  _ at him before downing the shot, slamming it on the table like it would ease the burn. 

 

“God almighty--now pay up, fair’s fair.” Patrick grunted and Pete shrugged his shoulders, secretly delighted that Patrick hadn’t figured out that he was an open book and  _ definitely  _ something of an oversharer. There wasn’t a lot he wouldn’t say or tell or do...but hey, if Patrick was going to keep taking shots and getting pinker in the cheeks and looser with his answers, then he’d take his blessings with grace. Step Two of The Grand Plan was going swimmingly. 

 

“You’re--” he leaned forward on his elbows and Patrick mirrored him, bringing them close enough they  _ could _ have kissed with just a little more effort, “--well, I get the feeling that you like to be in control, to know how things are going to go. You don’t leave things to chance a lot, or do things recklessly, I’d guess if I was trying to be a Fortune Cookie. So,  _ considering _ that...makes sense you’d want to run the show in bed, too.” 

 

He tilted his head to the side with a smile that he hoped said all the things he wished he could say--he wished Patrick would hear them as something more than a line or a hook or a ploy. He wanted to say  _ you’re amazing and I would let you do anything to me, because for some reason I trust you to be gentle. _ He wanted to murmur lowly  _ I know something hurt you, but I promise I’d never do the same, if you’d just give me the chance,  _ he wanted to wrap his arms around Patrick’s deliciously curved frame and murmur into the soft skin of his neck  _ you’re perfect and I just want to get to know you, to burrow inside you and find your secrets and keep you safe. _ But he didn’t say any of those things, because he  _ knew _ they would be met with a sharp word or a roll of seashore eyes with a derisive smirk.  _ Someday _ , he promised himself. 

 

Meanwhile, Patrick seemed to take his answer well, nodding his head with a contemplative twinkle in his eye. “Maybe you’re a bit more perceptive than I’d given you credit for, Yankee Doodle Boy.” 

 

Pete laughed, refilling his shot glass and lifting his own. “I’ll drink to that, Mr. Whiskey!” 

 

~//~

 

Two  _ more  _ hours found them half-walking, half-stumbling in the general direction of the ha’penny bridge, bottle thrown away empty in a passing garbage can. Pete’s hand was firmly laced with Patrick’s and jammed into the pocket of his wool coat--there had been some low muttering he was convinced was half Gaelic, and half  _ idiot bugger can’t even remember gloves like a gowl _ \--but he wasn’t upset. It had been Step Three of The Grand Plan, to get to hold hands with the enigmatic little guy, and he’d made it...Step Four would just be a bonus at this point. Still, his hand was miraculously warm against his own, fingers fitting perfectly as before and he could just feel the enticing curve of his thigh when Patrick took a step. 

 

Something delightful wafted across the street, and Patrick’s head perked up like a terrier catching a whiff of bacon. “Oh, fuck that smells good. Want to get a donut? Seems like just the thing…” Never one to turn down sweets of any kind,  _ especially _ if they meant he got to spend any more time with Patrick, he had agreed instantly and followed as they veered off towards the sole brightly-lit shopfront on the street. They were getting closer to the student dorms, he realized, that’s why this shop was still open at this time of night. Catering towards sleep-deprived vampiric post-grad students who needed a midnight pick me up, or else the harried underclassman who sought refuge in some icing and perfectly-yeasted dough. 

 

They slid through the door and into the warmth, and Pete wondered if Patrick would shake off his hand with a grumbled  _ now it’s warm, you idiot, bring gloves next time! _ But no--he kept Pete’s hand lodged firmly in his pocket, only letting go to fish out a ten euro note and hand it to the caffeine-buzzed kid across the counter with a smile and a  _ keep the change.  _ But then he reached down and pulled Pete’s hand from his pocket, lacing their fingers back together and leading him on totally steady feet--damn him!--to a high table by the window. 

 

They munched their donuts in silence--sugar crystals bouncing to the table between them and Patrick kept sweeping them into a tiny pile in the middle. Pete found it endearing. 

 

“Her name was Samantha--Sam. She said I was boring, that all my theater babble and Tom Waits on the record player wasn’t something she could imagine tying herself to.” The words floated to him like detritus from a downed ship, drifting aimlessly across the table. He looked up at Patrick only to see him staring contemplatively out the window, eyes peering into the past and blind to the blinking lights of the city. “I met her just as I was about to finish Uni. We--we hit it off almost immediately, and she graduated the same year I did. She was a music student and had a job all lined up back in London, brilliant thing.” His face was soft, all the sassiness bled out and replaced with resignation and hurt, with something that made him seem smaller and just _less_. It broke Pete’s heart. “I--I thought it would work, you know? I used to fly to London all the time to see shows, so I thought it’d be no harder to do the same to see her. I did for a few months...and then she just kept getting busy all of a sudden. She’d come up with reasons to cry off on me coming out there, and she _never_ offered to come back here...and then she dumped me. Sent me a box with the things I’d given her and a letter telling me that it was over, that it’d been fun but hadn’t really been meant to be and that it hadn’t really been all that serious after all, had it?” He turned, finally meeting Pete’s wide-eyed gaze. “I think that was the worst part, you know? I would have understood if it had just been the distance, I really would’ve. But she had to say... _all_ _that._ ” He waved his hand like the tiny mountain of sugar was the totality of the relationship’s pain, and shrugged. “I guess it’s why I haven’t really played a lot of music since, other than just ballsing around with Mickey, and I just… I was wary, after that. It doesn’t seem worth the risk.” 

 

He took another bite of his donut, chewing ferociously, and Pete couldn’t help but reach out and put his hand on the wool-coat clad arm resting on the table. “I’m really sorry. That’s--she’s an idiot.” 

 

“Not lookin’ for a boost.” Patrick shook his head, like he  _ hadn’t _ just bared his soul a little, like he hadn’t just been the most vulnerable Pete had ever seen him be. “You kept asking, figured I’d shut you up, so.” He said it without his trademark sass, there was no bite or sting to the words and Pete couldn’t help but respond with a shake of his own head, setting his donut down and taking his hand in both of his own. 

 

“No, ‘Trick, listen to me.” Blue-green eyes met his own, and he tried valiantly not to be swept away in their beauty. “You--look, don’t like freak out and think I’m gonna go find a ring pop and propose to you right now, ok? But you--you’re really cool. Not like, cool like a new pair of Air Jordans, but you’re fun and smart and...there’s just so much about you I’m  _ super _ huge into. I promise, I’m not gonna just disappear and I--” He glanced down at where their hands were twined, Patrick’s pale one bracketed by both of his before his eyes flicked back once more upwards. “--I know it might be kinda crazy, but this doesn’t just feel like a fling for me. There’s something about you and I wanna...I want to see more.” 

 

There was something in Patrick’s eyes, then. A flash of...he didn’t know what. Joy? Pain? Fear? Excitement? It could have been any one, it could have been all of them, it could have been something entirely different. But he just gave Pete a small, unguarded smile and leaned forward. For a moment, Pete’s heart froze, wondering if  _ this was it _ , if their first kiss would be in a donut cafe at midnight. But Patrick just wiped some sugar from his mouth, fingers lingering just a hair longer than was strictly necessary….and he decided it was  _ perfect. _

 

~//~

 

The Ha’penny bridge was cloaked in the silent darkness of the wee hours of the morning when they reached it, finally. Pete  _ knew _ he should feel cold, he  _ should _ feel a twinge of sadness that the evening was coming to an end...but he just couldn’t. The night twinkled around him and he swore he could  _ feel _ it, he could  _ feel _ that magic that people always talked about. Not just the magic of boy-meets-boy-and-drinks-tequila, but that magic that hailed from pixies and fairies, that glittered in the lakes and crashed onto the craggy cliffs in the waves. He would have sworn to seeing something shimmer out of the corner of his eye as they set foot on the bridge, the white railings reaching up around them like bone in the moonlight and Patrick’s hand warm in his. 

 

The magic floated around him just out of sight, his heart giddy with happiness over the time spent together as they reached the apex and began to walk the gentle curve back down. Patrick was humming something under his breath--melodic and sweet though he couldn’t quite place what it was--and he was rubbing gentle, absent circles against the skin of his wrist. He snuck a sidelong glance to the man next to him, moonlight casting his pale skin to creamy alabaster, lips like delicate china painted the barest of colors, hair the color of wheat under starlight. Blue eyes flicked to the side to meet his, catching his creeping and he felt a shiver of apology flit across his lips, explanation that he wasn’t  _ that _ weird, promise....

 

But instead of a sassy remark, rather than a skyward roll of those eyes that could flash with fire and grit...Patrick gave him a smirk tinged with tenderness and pushed him back across the railing. He felt it press firm and knobbed against his spine and there was that strange feeling of cold leaching through his coat even as Patrick pressed himself firmly against him--warm and wonderful. There was a smile on his lips as he looked at him from under lowered lashes, flicking between his mouth and his eyes and Pete realized now  _ he  _ was the one being examined, wondered about, considered. But Patrick just gave a little shake of his head, brought a cold hand up to cup the back of his neck and  _ kissed him _ . 

 

_ Darker than a swoon of sin _ \--Joyce’s words flitted through his mind like a flicker of reflected candlelight, because he  _ totally hadn’t _ gone and checked out everything written by the guy after Patrick’s little aside at the Gravity Bar. But that was gone in a twist of fingers into the hair at the base of his head as lips that were cold for a moment softened with shared heat against his own. He couldn’t help the tiny moan that tumbled from him as the barest hint of inquisitive tongue brushed out, light and gentle. 

 

He wasn’t sure when his hand slipped around Patrick’s waist, sliding against his shirt and pulling him flush against him. He couldn’t have said the exact moment when his searching fingers cupped a pale cheek crowned with thick, downy sideburns that he noted with distant surprise were incredibly soft. But he  _ did _ know the exact moment their lips parted, when the kiss went from gentle to just a shade hungry, from skirting the edge of propriety to a press of  _ want _ and  _ need _ against elegant wrought iron. 

 

There was something truly magical about the way Patrick smiled at him when he pulled away, cheeks flushed and Pete knew for a  _ fact _ that it wasn’t from the cold or the alcohol. He gave in and let his fingers sweep up to brush back a strand of spun-gold hair as he whispered to the night, to the magic, to the space between them that trembled with newness and hope. “Lips kissed, kissing kissed.” Patrick tilted his head to the side just a fraction of an inch, interest twinkling in his eyes as he arched an eyebrow. 

 

“Someone’s been brushing up on his literature.” Patrick whispered with an ironic twist of petal-plush lips, and Pete shrugged back with a smile of his own. 

 

“If you like him enough to quote, figured I’d better pay attention.”

 

_ That _ earned him a smile bright with promises and a small chuckle from a chest he longed to map with his lips and his fingertips and his mouth. Patrick pulled him back in for another kiss, all teasing nips and clever flashes of tongues against lips and teeth. He was dizzy with it, head whirling with the heady blend of donuts and tequila and something inestimable that had to just be  _ Patrick _ dancing on his tongue, the way his fingers felt brushing his neck, the solid press of his body that made him feel contained, safe. 

 

The flash of lights from a Garda car flying past pulled them from the cocoon of each other, called them from the haze of lips and hands and heat. Patrick pulled away and the sudden rush of cold air was nearly as awful as the loss of contact, the theft of a perfect body pressed against his own. Pete wanted to pull him back, wanted to surge forward and press  _ him _ to the wrought iron railing and whisper secrets into his neck, brush them through his shirt and collect his little huffs of breath like gold. But he held back, something in Patrick’s stance told him this was as far as it was going for the night...and he could be okay with that. Step Four of The Grand Plan had always been a bonus, after all. 

 

So he just reached out and took his hand, leading him down the bridge and onto the cobbled street where they had started the night hours before. A thought hit him and he smiled with it, flush with humor at the delightful turnabout. 

 

“Goodnight, Patrick. Thank you for a lovely evening.” He squeezed his hand and pulled him close, diverting at the last minute to press a kiss to his cheek, just as had been done to him outside the student dorms. Patrick seemed to get the joke and he shook his head with a laugh as Pete pulled away, sliding his hand free and jamming them in his pocket. 

 

“Goodnight, then. Pleasant dreams.” 

 

Then they both ambled their separate ways, moonlight gilding the deserted streets with the barest sheen of silver, of magic...and Pete  _ thrummed _ with it.  


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for a trip back to Dublin? 
> 
> Flames really pulled it out of the bag with this one and her obsessive attention to detail re: ceili dancing. Misspent youth, quite clearly!
> 
> Somehow, this seems to be turning out way more regular than I initially envisaged it being, hopefully that's a good thing! Hope you enjoy...

Something had changed after their date.

 

Patrick couldn’t quite place his finger on what it was, though he knew it should have been embarrassment at quite how much of himself he’d managed to give away, but there was a definite shift between them. The magic of the Pale had finally ensnared them, the twinkle and shine of the Liffey below them sparking something indescribable to wrap around them and turn him into something close to a lovestruck fool. No, that was too much, crush-struck at best. But still, somehow, he’d gone from cheerfully knocking back Pete’s advances to what could only be described as flirtatious encouragement. It would never do.

 

But it meant, when a text pinged through to his Blackberry whilst he lounged around on his lunch break, that he reacted in a way that he could only describe as entirely out of character.

 

_Miss u xxxx_

 

He stared at it for a moment, fingers tapping a rhythm of uncertainty into the worn surface of his desk. Truth was, he missed him too, but the devil would take him before he’d admit _that._

 

_It’s been two days, gobshite. Go and take advantage of a REAL university, I’d wager you’re paying too much to waste this golden opportunity._

 

Pete’s reply pinged back far quicker than any man should be able to type.

 

_Nt knd :’( :’( :’( :’(  Jst wna hng w u? Cm on trick mst b smwhr we cn go! Xxxxxxx_

 

Patrick could only think of one place he really wanted Pete. Would it really be so bad to take the pretty American to bed? He didn’t have to get attached, it could be straightforward in the same way as things were with Seamus or any of the others. A ride, breakfast if Pete were particularly lucky and then on with the day. Simple, really. Because, despite Pete’s romantic and heartfelt declarations when they were both half-cut on tequila, Patrick was a realist.

 

_I have a plan if you’re free tonight?_

 

Oh, feck it all.

 

_Snds gd! Wht r u gna do 2 me? ;) xxxxx_

 

He knew he should ignore the text or send back something pithy and sarcastic, something mildly cutting that reminded Pete just who was in charge. Instead he made a quick call to Mickey to cry off his shift at the Castle Cross that night then tapped out his reply – both thumbs, tongue poking studiously from the corner of his mouth – a curl of excitement low in his belly.

 

_Meet me at The Fiddler Boy on Reuben Street at 8. DON’T BE LATE._

 

He couldn’t help but grin a little to himself as the reply bounced back almost immediately.

 

_Alwys n tme 4 u trckybby :* :* :*_

 

He switched his phone off with a flutter of nervous excitement, removing the temptation to spend the afternoon rehearsals staring down at it rather than at the performance. But who was to know that he was mentally flicking through his wardrobe and picking out his outfit for the evening like a fifteen-year-old girl on her first date to the pictures.

 

~*~

 

Patrick was more nervous than he had any right to be as he shifted from foot to foot outside of The Fiddler Boy - a little pub in Dublin 8, a decent throw from the hustle and bustle of the tourist spots - and tried to pretend he wasn’t at all fettled. There was a blast of warm air and a throb of loud music each time the door swung open behind him, another patron coming or going, a small crowd of them huddled around the patio heater left for the smokers in their icy exile. In truth, Patrick wouldn’t have minded shifting a little closer to it himself but his asthma dictated otherwise.

 

Pete’s texts were constant, his intent never unclear, Patrick’s nerves weren’t borne from fear of being stood up. No, there had been a distinct turn in the tone of their messages, the tease and promise of perhaps something more and the fizz and tingle in Patrick’s stomach grew with each message. This was the kind of nervous anticipation of discovery, the brief interlude where anything and everything was possible before reality interfered.

 

Then he saw him.

 

The butterflies transformed into a flock of fairies dancing a jig somewhere between his heart and his groin as Pete’s smile lit up the damp chill of the January night, his eyes brighter than the streetlights glowing softly above them. Patrick returned the smile, any sharp barb dying on his lips as Pete leaned in and brushed a very chivalrous, incredibly _proper_ kiss to his cheek, cold skin brushing cold skin.

 

“You look very handsome,” Pete grinned and from anyone else it would have sounded ridiculous, it would have made Patrick scowl and probably throw out a few choice insults. But from Pete it was entirely genuine and hopelessly charming. It made him glow just a little too pink under the brim of his cap and shove his hands down awkwardly into the pockets of his coat, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

 

“Not looking half bad yourself,” he muttered gruffly. He was lying; Pete looked utterly edible with his hair brushing into his kohl-rimmed eyes, his skinny jeans and what looked like a white band shirt and black vest under a rather smart and well-cut wool coat. Of course, he had to offset the whole look with the ugliest skull print scarf Patrick had ever seen outside of Liberty Market. It _suited_ him though, looked good against the curve of his neck and somehow managed to accentuate the shine of his eyes the colour of which Patrick still wasn’t exactly sure of. Patrick would happily have dragged him into the jacks and spent the next twenty minutes on his knees for him but instead he grinned, clapped a hand to Pete’s shoulder and jerked his head back in the direction of the beat thumping behind them. “You up for it?”

 

“Maybe if I knew what “it” was…” Pete trailed off, eyes flicking over the innocuous looking pub front. “You gonna give me a clue?”

 

“Tell me, Pete,” he slipped a hand to the small of Pete’s back – through the vent of his coat, over the vest – the warmth of his skin bouncing through his thin shirt as he pulled him towards the door. “Have you ever been to a ceili?”

 

The music hit them like something solid, like a powerful force that thumped through Patrick’s chest and burned in his veins. It was the kind of thing Pete had sneered at on the first night - fiddles and bodhrans and flutes - and, if the look of confused horror on his face were anything to go by, his opinion hadn’t changed much over the intervening few weeks. Patrick hooked his thumb under the warm, worn leather of Pete’s belt, stroking lightly at the soft skin beneath and smirked a sidelong challenge, “Something wrong, so?”

 

“No,” Pete made the word last several seconds and many syllables, his eyes drawn to the people dancing in front of the band. Realisation dawned like sunrise across his features, chased quickly by panic. “Oh fuck, you’re… you can’t be serious? I can’t… I don’t know...”

 

Patrick guided him to the bar, pausing here and there to call a greeting to a face he recognised, sharing a joke or two, introducing Pete until they stood against the bar. Unable to bring himself to push Pete any further out of his rapidly decreasing comfort zone, he ordered him whatever weak-looking American beer they had loitering in the fridge and, hand curled around his own pint glass, he leaned in with a smile, “You’ll pick it up, now. Look, it’s easy! Even Finn over there is managing and he barely knows how to tie his own shoelaces.”

 

“Patrick,” Pete began seriously. “I can’t dance. Seriously, I can’t dance to actual music in an actual club, _please_ don’t make me – ”

 

“C’mere while I tell you,” Patrick cut him off, free hand caught on Pete’s collar and pulling him enticingly closer until his lips brushed the soft skin of Pete’s earlobe. “Just watch. If you can pick up a few steps, maybe you’ll catch a shift…”

 

“What does that even _mean -_ ”

 

Pete’s objection died away as Patrick, with a soft little moan that was only half for effect, pressed his lips gently to the warm, cologne-scented skin just beneath Pete’s ear. Pete groaned, inaudible to anyone around them, just the vibration of his throat against Patrick’s lips enough to give him away, “Just a few steps. For me?”

 

“You’re an asshole,” Pete sighed with no real venom, watching the dancers with renewed interest. “Okay, fuck it. I can do this… How hard can it be?”

 

They leaned against the wall together, shoulders touching soft as kisses as he murmured into Pete’s ear, pointing out the various steps. Really, it was nothing more than a thinly veiled ruse to bring his mouth against Pete’s skin, to feel him shiver anticipation into the wall behind them. Fuck, Patrick wanted him, wanted to trace his fingers over every inch of skin he could touch and watch the way his pale contrasted with Pete’s gold. He wanted to lick and kiss and taste, to see what pretty little moans Pete could make and hear how they might harmonise with his own. He watched, entranced, at the way Pete’s lips moved as he spoke, how the plump flush of them framed words that he wasn’t really listening to, the way his throat contracted as he swallowed. He wanted to kiss him, to shove him back against the wall and bring their mouths together, to tease his tongue along the seam of those lips until Pete parted them and –

 

“Patrick Stumph!” He jumped at the loud call of his name, turning to face the speaker. “Why’re you hiding over here? Where’s Sam?”

 

“Sarah Donnell!” He greeted her, twirling her in his arms as she threw hers around his neck. He praised himself for not wincing at her mention of his ex. “What’re you doing all this way from home? Pete! Pete, this is Sarah, we went to Trinity together, Sarah, this is Pete he’s,” he paused for a moment as he wondered how best to introduce him, “he’s my date for the evening.”

 

“Oh,” she faltered, embarrassed for a moment. “Sorry about mentioning… I just thought, oh, never mind… Nice to meet you, so.”

 

“Dance?” He offered her, extending his hand with a flourish of a bow. For the first time, Pete seemed to freeze at the thought of Patrick leaving him alone, his fingers gripping into the cuff of Patrick’s blazer.

 

“Patrick,” he began softly, amber eyes roaming the room nervously.

 

“You can watch, take some notes, perhaps,” Patrick shot him a lopsided smile as he carefully worked his arm free. He paused before he moved to follow Sarah to the dance floor and brushed a kiss to the corner of Pete’s mouth, leaning to whisper in his ear. “I’ll make it worth your while. I swear.”

 

Pete smiled back, a nervous twitch of his lips as he slugged back half of his bottle of beer in one. Patrick took Sarah’s offered hand and made his way onto the dancefloor, shrugging off his blazer and abandoning it on the back of a chair. Irish dance lessons at school were never his thing but there was something of a revival in the 80s and he’d been forced into it. He was made to spend the requisite number of hours per week trying to avoid touching the sticky hands of the girl he was paired with lest his teeth fall out – he thanked his nana for that particular pearl of wisdom – and the knowledge had lodged itself in his head.

 

The song that started up was a fast one and he took a moment to roll up his shirt sleeves and loosen his tie before taking his place opposite Sarah. He paused for a second, bounced his weight against the balls of his feet and tested how his toes set against the leather. He might have been forced into it at six, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t an anally-retentive perfectionist at twenty-three and he had the weight of a golden gaze heavy against his shoulders. In short, he wanted to look impressive rather than like a doyle and so, he took a breath in the pause as Sarah began before moving forward smoothly to join her.

 

It shocked him, really, how easy it was to fall back into it. He didn’t look like the most graceful man in the world, he knew that; too short, a little too stocky around the middle, but he wasn’t a half bad dancer even if he – and his nana, to anyone that would listen – did say so himself. He was flashier than he otherwise would have been, intentionally going out of his way to show off a little, Pete’s gaze a physical weight in the small of his back. He turned with a flourish and caught eyes like liquid gold with his own, sharing a private smile for just a second, a cheeky wink and then he twisted away again.

 

By the time the song drew to a close he was breathless with exertion and laughter, a light mist of sweat on his brow as he moved back to Pete and a few deep gulps of his lager.

 

“You’re an asshole,” Pete informed him, he laughed softly in response. “I didn’t think you’d be _good_ , but you’re better than good, you’re… you’re like the Lord of the fucking _Dance_ , dickhead.”

 

“Oh, stop it now,” Patrick admonished him softly, licked his lips slowly when he knew Pete was staring at them. “Think you’ve picked up a few steps?”

 

Pete chewed his lip with a slow nod, gestured to the dancefloor with the neck of his beer bottle, “Not out there though. Here.”

 

Patrick thought about forcing him. He considered pushing him a little further and telling him it would only count if he’d get onto the dancefloor with everyone else. But another idea nudged something at the far edges of his mind so he set down his glass, gently pried Pete’s bottle from his hand and laced their fingers softly. Something crawled through him with the contact, some delicious tingle that fizzed in his spine as he glanced up and met eyes smudged thick with liner. The band played on behind them, loud and raucous and, with a soft laugh, he squeezed gently and murmured, “Show me what you’ve got, yank.”

 

Pete, it transpired, had all of the natural grace of a baby elephant. He was lead-footed with apparently no sense of coordination and if it hadn’t been for the look of panicked embarrassment on his face Patrick might have thought he was fucking with him. Instead he steadied him with hands against narrow hips, turning so Pete was directly in front of him, back to his chest.

 

“No,” he corrected softly. “Just… relax your hips a little, nice and loose, like you’re… like you’re giving someone a ride, so.”

 

“Like I’m doing _what?”_ Pete queried, confused. Patrick pulled him back by the hips, setting the press of his cock to the curve of Pete’s ass and bringing his lips against his ear.

 

“Like you’re fucking someone,” he clarified, whisper-soft, rolling his hips just a little, just enough to elicit an almost inaudible gasp from Pete’s lips. But, he did it, relaxing his hips and following the guidance of Patrick’s gentle grasp. “That’s it, now just, straighten your back, bring up your foot and… yes! Like that!”

 

He did it. Unsteady and slow and clumsy but he managed a few short steps that he’d memorised. He wouldn’t be joining Riverdance anytime soon but…

 

“Where are you going?” Pete called plaintively as Patrick shrugged his blazer back on.

 

“I thought we could step outside for a moment,” he offered, eyes twinkling behind his glasses as Pete’s widened with realisation. Their fingers laced together inviting and promising. “If you wanted to, of course.”

 

“Uh, _yeah,”_ Pete nodded and allowed Patrick to tug him along, to wind their way between tables and bodies and out through the door. The cold was like a slap to the face, enough to steal the air from his lungs like he wanted to steal it from Pete’s. He led him to a bench across the road, left in a pool of shadow just out of reach of the streetlights, plopped down onto the wood and pulled Pete down next to him.

 

“You did a good job,” he informed him softly, pressing their linked hands to his thigh. Pete’s eyes slid from their fingers to Patrick’s eyes then bounced down to his lips.

 

Patrick had intended to tease him a little, to draw it out and get him needing, get him wanting and pleading and yet, those amber eyes were on him like sunlight on the Liffey and all he could do was reach up and cup the heated skin of Pete’s cheek to draw him down, draw him closer. Pete came willingly, hand burying in the hair at the back of Patrick’s head and knocking the peak of his cap down over his eyes. He didn’t care, couldn’t care, as their lips touched, warm and soft and inviting.

 

It was soft to start, the gentle press of inquisitive lips and breath stolen from one another’s lungs. He traced the tip of his tongue along the seam of Pete’s lips, just as he’d imagined doing, pulled him closer as his lips parted, sweet and sure. He tasted just how Patrick remembered, faintly sweet, softly masculine and the hint of malt from his shitty beer dancing on his tongue. Oh fuck, that _mouth_ , the gentle way he teased his tongue against Patrick’s, the way he flickered it in interesting ways that Patrick could _absolutely_ imagine against the head of his cock. He pushed even closer with a groan, tipped his head back and let Pete’s mouth wander across his throat, biting sharp little kisses against his neck as he sighed out a blissful moan.

 

He tilted Pete’s mouth back upward, caught his lips softly with his own as he claimed the back of that honey-gold neck with the clutch of his hand, fingertips playing through the jet of his hair. Any notion he’d had of holding out any longer, making him wait a few more dates, abandoned him entirely and he pulled back with a gasp.

 

“Stop for a second,” he implored with a groan. “Listen, now.”

 

“Listening,” Pete whispered, breath tickling shivers down Patrick’s spine as his lips brushed against his ear.

 

“Okay, so,” he knew he needed to concentrate, needed to think beyond the blood determinedly attempting to reroute itself straight to his cock. “I have a proposition for you… If you can do a dance with me, back in there, then… then you can come back to my place. For coffee…”

 

“Coffee?” Pete repeated, bright smirk, shining eyes. “I like _coffee…”_

 

“Would y’ever just fuck off?” Patrick’s smile belied the bite of his words, lips meeting once more, as firm and sure as his steps on the dancefloor.

 

They made their way back inside once the night chill ceased to be refreshing and began to shade towards uncomfortable, Pete’s fingertips brushing the inside of Patrick’s wrist in a delightful way that made him tingle with anticipation. Back in the bright press of bodies, the copper-hued warmth of the room flowed around them with the music Patrick led him to a less-occupied corner and showed him how to rise-and-grind, the eight-movement step that formed the baseline of the dances. Patiently, just as his teacher had showed in in school, he talked him through it, slow as molasses.

 

“From the top now, yes? Up, hop-back, hop back-two - no, _hop_ with your back leg, there you are, now.” He pointed, surprised that while Pete couldn’t manage to remember to stay on the balls of his feet, he’d got the basics of the motion nearly down. “Okay, so one more time, _up_ , hop-back, _hop_ back-two-three-four - _good!_ Nice one!” He clapped a hand on Pete’s shoulder as he stumbled a bit out of the step and felt a rush of pride to see his teaching well-received. He took a determined swig of his water - he had declared this was too hard of work for drinking to cloud his abilities - Pete nodded as he stared out at the dance floor.

 

“Okay, well show me how it all goes together?” So Patrick did, explaining how to hold his hands and taking him through the ‘Walls of Limerick,’ privately smiling at the way Pete’s brow was scrunched in concentration, his constant insistence to stop off with his left foot and the way his tongue poked out of his mouth just the tiniest bit as he watched Patrick’s feet.

 

“Lookin’ like a born natural.” Sarah proclaimed as she came up to join them, motioning with her chin. “But you gotta step off with your right each time, so.”

 

“Yeah, Patrick’s only told me that like five hundred times.” Pete groused with a smile on his face and Sarah laughed.

 

“Well, watch us do it, then, and see if it makes more sense.” She bumped Pete out of the way playfully with her hip before facing Patrick, smiling. He grinned back, and he felt a laugh bubble up as they began, moving slower than normal so Pete could learn. Once they’d finished, he backed up and motioned where he’d been standing.

 

“Now you try it, I’ll call it for you.” Pete moved into place, jaw set with determination as he faced Sarah, who was tilting her head like she was about to take him on in a boxing match. “And… advance, retire, advance, retire, there you are now. She goes ‘round, now you go, right foot leads now - ”

 

Ten minutes later, Pete finished a relatively correct - if not at all graceful - rendition of the dance and Patrick felt his lips curve into a proud smile as he leaned against the table. Sarah was asking Pete what he was studying at Uni, and he took the moment to wonder. Wonder why Pete wasn’t chasing a pretty, curly-haired thing like her, why he was working so hard to weasel himself into Patrick’s life when he’d have the pick of the campus girls, he was sure. But then a familiar strain of fiddle-magic wafted around him and he stood with a smile. “This is it - this is the jig I just showed you. Come on now, let’s go.”

 

The panicked look was back on Pete’s face as he let Patrick pull him towards the dance floor. “But, it’s gonna be way faster, isn’t it? I’m gonna, I don’t want to disappoint - ”

 

“Ah, get away with you, now.” Sarah threw over her shoulder and Patrick nodded in agreement.

 

“Just relax, and remember your hips.” He winked and Pete nodded, still looking a bit like he was facing a firing squad rather than a dancing line, but took up his place without a squabble.

 

The music rose to the appointed starting point and they _began_. People danced and flew all around them, and Patrick was momentarily caught off guard from the view the ladies’ side presented. But Pete did well, following the pointed cues Patrick gave him with a flick of the finger or a nod of the head. By the time it was nearly over, his eyes had risen from where they had been firmly riveted on their feet - nearly colliding with another dancer in the process - and met Patrick’s across the line. He was flushed, eyes sparkling with excitement as his feet moved and his grin bright like a flash of reflected light as he exalted in his accomplishment. Patrick smiled right back - feeling no need to temper the expression - and winked as they whirled around each other, twin moons caught in the central gravity of the dance.

 

At the conclusion Pete performed a perfectly polite bow, full of gravitas and pride, before prancing from the floor with a fist pumping into the air in triumph. Patrick took his hand as he started to veer towards the corner they’d previously occupied, and tugged. “Fag break?”

 

“But, you said you don’t - ” Confusion bloomed over Pete’s face but Patrick just shook his head as he pulled him towards the back door.

“I _don’t_ , but come _on…”_ They wove through the throng by the bar to slip out the narrow door, painted black but chipped to hell with age and many a drunk kicking at it with unsteady strength. It shut behind them, the patio dark without the heat lamps to brighten it, and he glowed with it. Pushing Pete against the wall of the pub he pressed himself close, sealing their bodies together - hip to hip, toe to toe, eye to eye. Without preamble he captured Pete’s lips with his own, unable to help echoing the sigh when his mouth parted and he could deepen the kiss, push into his mouth even as his hips rolled against Pete’s like they were still dancing. Moaning, Pete wrapped a hand around his neck, other slipping around his waist to gently dip lower and caress the curve of Patrick’s ass. He couldn’t help but return the earlier favour, breaking away to tilt Pete’s head up and press a line of kisses to the line of his throat. He shivered at the hitch in Pete’s breath as his lips met the tanned column of muscle that twitched and worked in excitement. The hand on his ass tightened just a bit, enough that he knew Pete was imagining a _different_ kind of dancing as he rolled his hips right back.

 

“Trick, ‘Trick c’mon you - I - ” He gasped as Patrick licked into the hollow of his collarbone, tasting the salt of sweat and the bite of cologne, dizzy with the smell and feel of him. He was rapidly losing track of the reasons he shouldn’t just sink to his knees and take Pete apart, why he shouldn’t turn him around and -

 

But then Pete was shuddering and pushing him away with gentle hands, bending over to rest his palms on his knees and Patrick felt at a loss. Had he not, surely he -

 

“Fuck, man.” Pete pulled in a deep breath and let it out, shaking his head where it was hanging down before looking up to meet Patrick’s confused gaze. He looked far more debauched than he had any right to be, and Patrick decided he unequivocally liked the look on him. “I swear to God, it’s gonna be hard enough to go back in there with a semi, but you keep going and I’m gonna be dancing with a full-on boner.” Patrick couldn't help the snort that leapt from him, but he felt a certain amount of pride in the statement. That he could get Pete so riled up with just his mouth pressing to soft places, a gentle swell of tongue judiciously placed… he felt heady with it.

 

“Least we know all the parts work, now.” He couldn’t help but snark out as he moved forward, hand brushing out in a motion that was meant to _look_ wayward, to _look_ accidental but they both knew was calculated to a millimetre. His thumb just skimmed up the length of the bulge at Pete’s crotch, featherlight and teasing, and he couldn’t help the way he sucked in his own breath at the way Pete’s stuttered. Pleading copper eyes shot up to meet his, before dropping shut with a groan as he let his head thump back against the brick.

 

“Christ - either fuck me in the bathroom or - ” Pete looked momentarily unsure, throat working as he breathed deep through his nose. “ - Or tell me about afterbirth or tax season or your grandma pole dancing. _Something_ , otherwise I’m going to be walking like a bow-legged cowboy.”

 

“My nana is a _classy_ lady, thank you very much.” Patrick chuckled, moving away with hands held out in innocence. “But fine, don’t want you to injure yourself before.”

 

“Before?” Pete’s eyes glowed in the darkness, like twin candle flames guttering to life in a burst of oxygen as he gave Patrick a knowing look. “Before our _coffee_ , you mean?”

 

“Yes, so.” He shook his head and grabbed Pete’s hand, pulling him back towards the door. “A nice, hot, steaming cup o’ joe, as you types call it.” Pete’s laugh was lost as they pushed back into the pub, a wall of conversation and warmth washing over them as the band turned sheet music and laughed between songs. Trapped between the bar and a press of girls who were having some sort of deep discussion, Patrick paused as he waited for the crowd to shift. Pete’s lips grazed his ear, and now _he_ was the one trembling under the heated promise of warm breath, of secrets shared between them.

 

“Hope you have a lot of _coffee_. Because I can take a _lot_ , if you know what I mean. I get _thirsty.”_ Pete’s fingers grazed just under the hem of his shirt, where it had ridden up just enough on the side to let them in to slide for the briefest moment against his skin. He strongly considered saying _fuck it_ and dragging Pete out into the night, to crash together in a spill of teasing kisses and leading words as they dashed to his flat… but then he felt a sharp poke on his shoulder, the authoritative type that told him the poke’s owner knew they’d be answered.

 

“Thought that was you, Patrick my dear.” The wizened blue eyes that took him in from behind delicate glasses flashed with humour and intelligence. “I’d know those sideburns anywhere.”

 

“Mrs. Fitz!” He smiled, stooping - and that was a thing to see, for certain! - to wrap his arms around her frail form and reciprocate the thundering hug she was bestowing on him. He felt sure that she was looking at Pete over his shoulder, assessing, wondering… but there was nothing but haughty humour in her eyes when she let him go.

 

“Now, so who’s your man, here? Patrick, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your manners already, I’ll have to tell your nana on you.”

 

“Of course not.” He smiled, turning to hold a hand out to Pete. “May I present Pete, he’s an exchange student come to pick up a bit of culture this evening.” His eyes flicked to Pete, who had extended his hand to take the pale, veiny one that was being offered to him like the very Queen of England herself. “And Pete, this is Mrs. Fitzgerald, she was my tutor at Uni, had to listen to my lubbering arse when I nearly failed second year Puppet and Object Theatre.”

 

“Right lucky you had me, too. If Mr. Gilcrist hadn’t had such a thing for me, you might never have made it.” She stopped her teasing as Pete bent low and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, standing back up all bright smile and soft eyes.

 

“Truly a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

 

A silver eyebrow rose delicately as her eyes slid to Patrick. “D'fhéadfadh sé seo a bheith ar cheann a choinneáil, mo daor.” Patrick felt his cheeks redden a bit, but merely shrugged with a small smile, and her gaze returned to Pete warmer and decidedly more aware. “Likewise, young Peter. Now, Patrick.” She regarded him with all the gravity of a judge surveying the accused. “You’re not going let me sit out my favourite dance, are you? Fairy Reel is next.”

 

“As long as you don’t mock me too hard for making a right bags of it next to you.” Patrick smiled, eyes flicking over to Pete as his mind snapped back to their teasing and wondering if he would feel gypped. But he just grinned, making a shoo-ing motion with his hand and Patrick desperately tried to run through the steps in his head as he led his companion to the floor.

_Of course_ the crafty old thing’s favourite dance was the hardest one. They reached their places just as the first strains of the accordion began to weave through the air and he huffed out a sigh as his partner gave him a wry grin. He heard someone let out a yowl followed by his name - Sarah, no doubt - and they were off, his feet moving in motions he barely remembered consciously but somehow did just in the nick of time.  He bit his lip and kept his eyes trained on Mrs. Fitz, who seemed to be heartily enjoying herself like the dance _didn’t_ have a list of steps that was a mile long and that keeping track of her feet, hands, smile and haughty looks was just the simplest thing in the world.

 

But they did it - with only one or two missteps on his part that he didn’t think anyone but the sharp-eyed sexagenarian noticed. He felt the thrill of it shoot through his veins as he led her from the floor, nodding and smiling as she told him about her newest great-grandchild and moaned the state of her old joints. It was that unexplainable satisfaction of having done something _hard_ and having done it well - no, there was no prize, nothing to be gained by dancing a horridly complex dance nearly-perfect… just the warm feeling that settled in his bones that he _had_.

 

That feeling melted and seeped down deep, between his joints and the links of his spine as he came back to Pete, who was midway through a hearty laugh at something Sarah had told him. Eyes the colour of burnished copper and gleaming brass came to meet his full of life and glorious lack of inhibition, and he wondered for a split second when he had stopped laughing deeply, when he had stopped smiling with his heart and his eyes.

 

“You two are some regular experts!” He reached out and slipped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close in a move that might have been drunken friendliness except he knew neither of them had been drinking. It was near, it was familiar and it was surprisingly _nice_. “Sarah here was showing me pictures of your college days. You really _do_ look good in a dress!”

 

Patrick couldn’t help the grumbling moan that fell from his lips as Sarah held her phone out to remind him of modules spent memorizing lines and trying to find the right hole in the dress to stick his head into. Pete nearly fell off his stool when she reached one with his face done up in stage makeup, lips outrageously painted and a superior look on his face. Mrs. Fitz leaned over to look - of course she still had perfect eyesight! - and she shook her head with a knowing chuckle.

 

“Always a brilliant one, you were, Patrick,” she shook her head with a chuckle as she reached for her bag. “Well, it’s been grand seeing you again, young man, you too, Sarah, my dear. And you, Peter, a pleasure meeting you.”

 

“Ah, now, heading away home so soon?” Patrick rushed to help her into her coat, leaning into the kiss pressed against his cheek that smelled of powder and perfume, the same as his nana. “Sure, the party won’t be the same without you.”

 

“Now, don’t be making a show of an old lady, so,” her hand tightened against his shoulder as she murmured softly, under the bounce of conversation around them as the band packed away their instruments and the bell behind the bar clanged for last orders. “It’s wonderful to see you smile, Patrick.”

 

The bar emptied around them until the crowd and crush faded to pockets of stragglers here and there, finishing up drinks and dragging the last of the night’s conversation out amongst themselves. Sarah left in a flurry of exchanged numbers and promises to do the same again soon, arm tucked into her boyfriend’s as he finished his shift behind the bar. Pete smiled at him from across the table they’d snagged in the corner, pausing to drain the last of his drink.

 

“So,” he began softly, leaning back in his seat. “Did I earn that coffee?”

 

Patrick didn’t reply as he pulled to his feet and shrugged on his coat, something shimmering bright and brilliant between them that would surely be rend from the air if he spoke. He just smiled as Pete did the same, as he wrapped his scarf around his neck and followed him into damp dark of the street. Patrick pulled him close, caught in the shadow that pooled between two street lights, one hand wrapped soft around the toffee warm skin of his neck, the other slipped to the smooth curve of his ass. Pete pushed his hips forward with a moan and, in the second before their lips touched, Patrick paused, words whispered soft on stolen breath around a smile dark with desire.

 

“Is dócha nach bhfuil seans ar bith ann?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, man, I feel like we're just teasing you guys now! But, hey! Failing someone falling into the Liffey maybe there'll be some smut next time...
> 
> The last thing that Patrick said to Pete, if translated literally, is "Probably, there's no chance at all?" which sounds particularly innocuous and sweet, right? Yeah, it's actually the as-close-as-Gaelic gets interpretation of "I suppose a ride's out of the question?" i.e. "Am I getting laid tonight or what?"
> 
> Dirty boy.
> 
> Feedback is always nice, comments and kudos are very much appreciated. 
> 
> You can also chat to us on Tumblr [Flames](https://a-smile-like-that.tumblr.com/) is here and [Snitches](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers) (that's me!) is here!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I start with a very sheepish apology. This has been sitting, half written, in my document folder for nearly two months. Flames_and_Jade is far too patient with my laziness but... here it is! I apologise if it is in no way worth the wait... There's a very small amount of Gaelic throughout the chapter, I've chosen not to translate it so you can be as in the dark as Pete or you can look it up! Your choice! I apologise to any Gaelic speakers reading this in advance. 
> 
> Well, I've rambled enough, on with the shameless smut.
> 
> I mean... uh... excellent, high quality and plot-driven literature.
> 
> Yeah. 
> 
> That's what I mean.

“C’mere til I tell you, gobshite,” Patrick murmured, the warmth of his hands searing against the chill of Pete’s cheeks, fingertips feathering soft against his cheekbones as he drew him down until their lips brushed. It was light at first, soft and teasing as he gently ran the curve of his lower lip against Pete’s, as he pulled him close with a hand that slipped to a hip.

 

It took a moment to remember to breathe, to draw air from Patrick’s lungs and into his own as he pushed Pete back against the wall. Pete whined in frustration, fisted both hands into Patrick’s hair, knocking his cap askew as he held him like he thought he’d take off running if he didn’t pin him there. A minute or two was lost to the tender brush of mouths as soft as the mist that gathered by the river banks, to the touch of lips and chilled fingertips, gentle and sweet.

 

It was Pete that deepened the kiss, that parted his lips with a quiet groan, his tongue light against Patrick’s. Patrick battled back and bit at Pete’s lower lip with teeth sweet and sure, the suck and pull of his lips against it enough to soothe the faint sting and Pete swore he’d kill a man to feel that mouth on his cock. He hungered with it, licking into Patrick’s mouth with desperation. He knew he fell too easily, that love and romance and notions of happily ever after flowed through him like blood in his veins but this… this felt different.

 

Patrick traced a line along his jaw, lips brushing skin as he sagged like Patrick was the only thing holding him upright, teeth nipping at the satin-softness of his earlobe then he whispered, all warm breath and teasing suggestion, “My place? I think we can only clear up the confusion about the meaning of the word _ride_ with a practical demonstration, if you’re not objecting.”

 

Pete laughed breathlessly, head tipped back as he shone his smile straight at the stars above them and murmured, “What happened to coffee?”

 

“Fuck the coffee,” Patrick smirked against his throat, lips orchestrating a symphony of burnt-raw nerve endings as he peppered lust-bright kisses under the line of his jaw. Patrick was heat and promise all wrapped up in sarcastic retorts and crowned with a newsboy cap and he gasped a stuttered curse as he bit lightly at his Adam’s apple before continuing with a low chuckle. “Unless you’d rather... ?”

 

“Depends, I mean, I _do_ like coffee…” Pete lost his breath to a whimper as Patrick - with a careful glance around the deserted street - slipped a hand between his legs and squeezed the bulge of his cock. Fire ignited from the touch, blowing through him until he was weak with it, nails sunk with desperation into the solid warmth of Patrick’s hips. “Or, you know, whatever you want to do instead.”

 

They really weren’t far from the flat, Patrick assured him; ten minutes if they strolled, more like five if they took it at a gallop, hurrying along with fingers caught and trapped and laced together. Pete dearly wanted to taste Patrick’s mouth once more, to push him back against the walls they raced past, but that would take time, and time was something that could be spent on more interesting things in a tiny attic flat tucked safe amongst the eaves. Patrick snarled his frustration at the lock, cursing it with muttered profanity in a curious mixture of English and Gaelic as Pete stood behind him, wrapped around him, hands stroking over the crotch of his pants. There was promise there, a curl of excitement in Pete’s gut as he felt the length of Patrick’s cock snagged up against his zipper. Patrick growled a curse, something about _I’ll kick the feckin’ thing down, swear to God,_ until it gave and twisted and they stumble-staggered into the hallway, falling over one another in their haste to bring their mouths together once more.

 

In a moment the floor seemed to vanish, slipped away from under him with a bad step on the bottom stair as he carried over and back on momentum and dragged Patrick with him to land with a grunt between his spread legs.

 

“Fuck, you all right, so?” Patrick asked with concern. Pete nodded vaguely, privately wondering if it would be alright to just stay there forever, rutting his cock against Patrick’s through a barrier of denim and a thin veneer of public decency. “Seriously now, please tell me you didn’t just knock yourself into a concussion. T’would put something of a dampener on the evening if I had to take you to A&E.”

 

“I’m fine,” he laughed, hot and breathless against Patrick’s ear, tongue teasing a flicker over the sensitive shell that made him gasp. “About that ride…?”

 

“Up now, go,” Patrick scrambled to his feet as Pete did the same, heart pounding a flutter against his chest with the breathless sense of wonderful anticipation. There came a groan of promised carnality from behind him, the slip of thumbs into the waistband of his briefs as Patrick pulled them down to reveal an inch or so of the cleft of his ass and, with a moan of _ah, would you fuckin’ look at you,_ a stream of syllables that rolled out all in one breath, he pressed his tongue along the crease.

 

Muscles slammed tense, back straight, hips loose, just how Patrick told him, just for a moment until Patrick moved. His nose pressed to the small of Pete’s back, the thrum of him vibrating through the layers of cotton, wool and denim that separated them as Patrick trembled - a bass string drawn too tight - nails sunk into hips until they ached. Hot breath, damp and sticky, rolled against the small of his back, lips the sweetest suggestion of movement as Patrick murmured something under his breath. Pete’s cock ached with the need for more, with the urge to slide down his zipper and turn, to press into the plush of Patrick’s mouth.

 

His hand wandered to his zipper as Patrick licked a warm line over his back, tongue mapping the curve over the crest of his ass, punctuation delivered perfectly with a bite that scored heat down to the bone. He groped for his belt buckle. It was fine, he decided, they were in a… hallway but, like, a relatively private hallway… it’s not like they were outside…

 

A thump like thunder stopped him short, blinding light spilling into the dark reservoir of lust they’d dammed for themselves. A jolt seemed to slam through Patrick like electricity as he fumbled back a step, lust-drunk with fingers caught against the studs of Pete’s belt.

 

“Patrick?” The voice wasn’t rough but reproval looped through it, tight with prim accusation. That warm hand drifted to the small of Pete’s back, shoving him up the stairs as he stirred, remembered how to move his feet, the nudge becoming more frantic until he did it, cresting the next step, then the next.

 

“Sorry, Mr O’Briain!” Patrick called cheerfully. “Didn’t mean to disturb you, we’ll be on our way now! Jesus fuck, Pete, show the good Lord you’re grateful for legs and feckin’ _move.”_

 

Pete thought he might have heard a curse from the floor below, the softest whisper of _feckin’ gowly arsehole_ , but it didn’t matter as the warmth of Patrick’s hand found his, as he was dragged and urged up the stairs to pause on a tiny landing as Patrick dealt with another key. This time he didn’t fumble, didn’t stutter for a moment and the door gave under his touch and they moved together to jam and tangle in the doorway. Lips-tongues-teeth, coats dropped to the floor. A waltz of hands cupping faces, backs bumping walls and heat pooling where skin touched.

 

They paused by the door bright with stickers, a breath stolen from one another as Patrick tucked a lock of Pete’s hair behind his ear, fingers warm and soft against his cheek as he smiled, bright and charming.

 

“Coffee?” he offered, eyes wide and innocent, lower lip caught between his teeth.

 

“Shut up,” Pete had never been good with witty comebacks.

 

The room was dark as they fell inside, stumble-staggering to fumble up against the door as it slammed closed behind them. Pete whimpered, low and breathy, as Patrick worked open his belt expertly, popped the button on his jeans and slid down his zipper, his brogue thick and broad as he chanted under his breath, _taispeáin dom, taispeáin dom, taispeáin dom._

 

Something angular was digging into the back of     Pete’s neck uncomfortably - a coat rack? - it didn’t matter as Patrick dropped to his knees with a groan that rang between them like a song. Pete felt the drag of nails down his thighs, cool air ghosting over him as they snagged around his knees. He dug his fingertips, hard, into the door behind him, eyes closed and head tipped back as Patrick tugged like sinful temptation at the waistband of his briefs.

 

“Taispeáin dom?” he repeated softly, smile glowing with a tease but bright with desperate need in the darkness. “Show me?”

 

Pete nodded around a breathless whine, hips bucking as Patrick eased them down, his voice a caress of warm breath that made Pete’s dick twitch, “Look at you…”

 

“Please,” he whispered, voice broken, realising absently as his fingers slid into honey blonde hair that Patrick had taken off his hat. “Don’t - don’t be a… a dick… just - just please…”

 

Patrick laughed, a dark, dirty little chuckle that rolled from his chest like woodsmoke. Pete didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone look quite so good on their knees, lips a shine of suggestive promise in the gloom as Patrick slipped a hand around him and began to stroke. He was slow and lazy, thumb scoring heat along the underside of Pete’s cock, mouth nipping kisses into the sharp line of a hip bone, eyes like riptide sparkling with a private joke that Pete wasn’t in on. He begged, pleaded, demanded, addressed it to those eyes, to the pretty curve of Patrick’s lower lip, to the glow of the street lights that patterned the ceiling with orange and gold. It was unanswered, the hand never speeding, the mouth sliding down only to lick against his thighs, bruises sucked like brands to his skin as his knees shook. Pete’s head rolled back, corded muscles trembling with unspoken desire as he wound his fingers further into hair like gold, mad with the urge to just drag him forward and…

 

“Féach orm anois,” Patrick murmured. Pete growled out a curse, head slamming back as his hips rolled towards the lips that trickled words he didn’t understand down the shaft of his aching, leaking cock. Patrick’s nails pressed into his ass, biting bruises that would hang like crescent moons against his skin for days to come. “Pete? Féach orm anois.”

 

Something in the tone, in the way his name rolled like a promise carved into the air between them, made him glance down, eyes springing wide as Patrick smiled filth up at him from his bedroom floor. Patrick hissed a breath that sounded like _good boy_ , lips parting as he swirled a lick against the crown of Pete’s cock.

 

“Fuck,” Pete groaned, heel slamming back against the door behind him as Patrick did it again, lips parted damp and plush to take in the head, then more and more until his mouth touched the hand wrapped around the base. Pete cupped Patrick’s face in both hands, hips twitching desperately in an attempt to stop himself from just slamming into the tight heat of the throat he could feel his cock nudging against with each bob of Patrick’s head. “Oh shit, `Trick, you’re - you’re fucking _incredible_ …”

 

Patrick just smirked, lips stretched around the blood-flushed length of Pete’s prick, the flicker of a wink making his gut cramp and clench with desire. Patrick moved his free hand from Pete’s hip, fingers scoring a trail of heat as he moved to cup his balls, squeezing lightly in time with his mouth. His middle finger pressed back to feather between Pete’s cheeks, the suggestion of pressure against his hole enough to make him cry out.

 

“Fuck, don’t stop, please don’t stop…” he whined, heat coiling low in his gut as Patrick nudged his fingertip inside, the illicit promise of things to come.

 

Patrick’s mouth was exquisite, wet warmth and soft lips, eyes closed in bliss as he snuffled needy moans around the aching throb of Pete’s cock. His tongue worked him over expertly, curling deliciously around the head on each slide up, gliding against sensitive places as he slipped down, reducing Pete to incoherent whispers cursed at the stars above them. His nails bit into line of Patrick’s jaw, back shifting straight as he thrust his hips to match the roll of the Liffey outside, pushing back onto the finger that was something-but-not-quite-enough, rocking into the mouth that painted him flush with want.

 

“Fuck, I - I’m gonna.. You need… you should… Fuck! Patrick!” he staggered forward with a gasp as the mouth, the hand, the gentle and inquisitive finger withdrew at once, his thumb pressed hard to the base of his cock as he doubled over and concentrated intently on not coming across the carpet. Patrick laughed like a tease from his knees at Pete’s side, mouth biting a bruise to his hip, hand landing a slap to his ass that stung in all of the right ways. “Fuck you… Jesus fucking _Christ…”_

 

He couldn’t say anything else as he hauled Patrick to his feet, shoving him back to land on the bed with a grunt, following on unsteady feet as he kicked his way out of his jeans and briefs, all tangled up in the mess of his shoes and socks. Patrick watched him with a smirk, propped on his elbows, jaw tilting up to meet Pete’s lips as he straddled him, the tempting press of his cock through his jeans grinding up against Pete’s exposed ass.

 

“Bain a bhaint as seo,” Patrick snarled, yanking hard on the hem of Pete’s shirt. Pete still had no idea what he was saying - but fuck, he resolved he’d learn if it meant he got to hear it growled into his ear by a pretty Irishman with a mouth made for sin - but the intention was pretty clear. He sat back, braced to the heat of Patrick’s cock and with slow precision, swept his shirt over his head, the cotton insufficient to drown out the strangled gasp that fell from Patrick’s parted lips. “Fuck…”

 

“You like?” Pete dipped his head, glancing at Patrick with a perfectly honed parody of shyness from under the sweep of his lashes. Patrick nodded, lip caught in the pearl snag of his teeth, fingers tracing ink on his collarbone, down his arms, sliding across to brush below his navel then closing around his cock.

 

“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, so,” Patrick breathed, stroking slow and sure, free hand pinching at Pete’s nipples with just the right amount of force to feel good. “Such a pretty fuckin’ bit, aren’t you? Y’want me to fuck you? That what you’re wantin’?”

 

Pete could only nod, fingers fumbling awkwardly with Patrick’s shirt buttons, huffing a curse into a kiss that tasted of his cock, the salt bitter of skin slicked with precome. His dick jumped in response between them, twitching into the warm curve of Patrick’s palm. Patrick laughed again, groping to unknot his tie, struggling to shrug his shirt back from his shoulders, a curse snarled out in Gaelic as his cuffs snagged on his wrists and then…

 

Then there was so much warm, pale skin under the questing press of Pete’s palms. He bit hunger into Patrick’s throat, kissing bruises from the heat of his mouth along the curve of Patrick’s collarbone. His teeth found the raised edge of a tight, pink nipple, biting softly as Patrick arched beautifully beneath him with a ragged cry, the sting soothed with the brush of his tongue. He sucked his mark to the soft swell of flesh right above Patrick’s hip, ran his tongue over the rounded line of his stomach, paused when he reached the coarse trail of hair that slipped down into Patrick’s waistband.

 

“Take these off,” he whispered hoarsely, tugging at the sensible black leather of Patrick’s belt.

 

“Take them off yourself,” Patrick smirked as he raised his hips in challenge, hand groping to knock on his bedside lamp and bathing the room in a low glow.

 

The pants slipped away, Patrick’s hand pressed to his cock over the strain of his boxer briefs, hips grinding into his palm as their lips met, wet and messy. Pete slipped a finger, crooked and trembling, under the snag of elastic at Patrick’s hip, pulling back to meet his eyes.

 

“Taispeáin dom?” he whispered, heart throbbing hard in his chest, mouth dry as he gazed down into eyes that shone like the Irish sea, green, blue and ringed with gold around the jet of his lust-blown pupils. He smiled, the kind of smile Pete hadn’t seen from him before, a smile that suffused him like sunrise, that sparkled into his gaze from the stretch of his lips. He laughed, short and breathless, and played a hand through Pete’s hair, dragging him down so their lips almost touched and breathed his reply into the hair’s breadth between them.

 

“Your pronunciation is feckin’ awful,” Pete blushed at the tenderness that honeyed his words. “But extra points for trying. Now then…”

 

With that, he wrapped his hand over Pete’s and slowly eased the waistband of his shorts down. Pete wanted to kiss him, wanted to lick his way into that mouth and taste each crevice, acquaint himself with the way Patrick’s teeth set in his mouth, to learn the taste of his tongue and the delicate lines of the roof of his mouth. Instead, he looked down, and watched Patrick’s cock slide into view.

 

First the head, blood-gorged and flushed, crowned with the pearl promise of precome that Pete ached to taste, fingers flexing under Patrick’s, tongue scoring heat against his lower lip. “Fuck…”

 

Patrick grinned, tooth-bright and shining, hand sliding lower and tugging cotton along with him as he revealed another inch then another and another, thumb and forefinger framing the slip of skin into view. Pete keened a moan, high in his throat as more came into view, more and more, skin flushed pink and kicking out heat until he stopped, waistband tucked under the soft swell of his balls. Patrick was _huge_ , thick and pretty, curved up towards his stomach and flared delicately wider towards the base, Pete reached to touch, stomach clenching as Patrick twitched under his fingers.

 

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , `Trick…”

 

Patrick smirked.

 

Lips tucked up at the corners, face shining with self-satisfaction he leaned back and gave himself a slow, casual stroke, free hand tucked behind his head as he raised his eyebrows like a challenge. He licked his lips, tongue dragging over the plush sweep of his lower lip in a way Pete wanted to emulate, eyelids fluttering as he scored the head of his cock with his thumb, breath stuttering softly as he whispered, “Diúl mo bhod.”

 

Pete suspected he didn’t need to know Gaelic when the intention was so clear, written in the arch of pale hips, in the way that magnificent cock shone slick at the head in the lamplight, in the way Patrick’s eyes lingered against Pete’s lips. He nodded needlessly, dragging Patrick’s shorts off the rest of the way and kneeling between his spread legs like prayer.

 

Listen, it’s not that Pete’s like, weird about it or anything - he’s _not_ \- and it’s not like he’d ever describe himself as some kind of… _deviant_ , but the words _cock-worshipping size queen_ may have been ascribed to him on more than one occasion.

 

Patrick gazed at him, propped on an elbow with an expression caught somewhere between anticipation and greedy voyeurism, hand still stroking slowly at his dick. There was something a little too close to arrogance curving his smirk, something that suggested he thought Pete couldn’t impress him, that he’d seen it all before with other halfway good-looking tourists sprawled on his sheets.

“Two things,” Pete held up two fingers as he curled his hand around the heated length of Patrick’s cock. Patrick quirked an eyebrow but, other than the fall of his hand to his side, didn’t react further. “One, I have a total oral fixation, sucked my thumb until I was sixteen. Two, I discovered at fourteen, following an incident involving a swimming pool and a twelve-inch popsicle, that I don’t have a gag reflex. Just… something to keep in mind.”

He didn’t give Patrick the chance to snap back a retort as he dipped his head and took him down, the slide of satin skin against the soft and tender press of his mouth decadently delicious. Patrick groaned – high and tight and tangled at the back of his throat – attempting to bite the noise into his lip as he struggled for control. Pete met his eyes, held them steady as he relaxed the tight press of his throat to swallow down more, hand finding the delicate weight of Patrick’s balls. Patrick streaked a hand across his suddenly sweat-damp brow, thighs taut under Pete’s palms as he twisted his hips and, with every unspoken sign, fought to resist the urge to rock himself further into Pete’s mouth.

Pete moaned, a long, drawn out hum of a note, his throat vibrating with it as Patrick choked a gasp of his name, fingers catching in the jet-dark fall of his bangs. A small victory, but Pete was beginning to suspect that would be the case with Patrick, tiny breakthroughs, chips in the defences rather than the towering crash of his walls coming down. He sucked a little harder, rolled his tongue and decided he could absolutely live with that as Patrick’s head fell back and, with a rumbling groan, he began to roll his hips.

“Jesus Christ,” Patrick addressed his moan to the ceiling above them. “You’re… You’re feckin’ _good_ at that. Fuck it all, don’t – don’t fuckin’ stop, no, you look so fuckin’ good with a cock in your mouth…”

Of course, he pulled off immediately, lips pursed wet and needing to the tender tip of Patrick’s cock as he blinked up at him with wide eyes. Patrick’s hand tightened in his hair, no attempt made to force him back down though those Galway bay eyes flooded with enough need to drown them both.

“You’re a feckin’ tease,” he groaned, cock flushed and shining slick in the lamplight. Pete crawled back to him, hands braced either side of that fall of golden hair, knees either side of porcelain-pale hips, Patrick’s cock tucked up tight against his own as their lips met in a tangle of tongues and aching need.

Patrick’s hands traced Pete’s spine, stroking a melody into the skin as their hips rocked together, the rub of blood-flushed cocks to so much aching skin almost too much to bear. Patrick groped, blind and fumbling, into the drawer of his nightstand, hands twisting awkwardly behind Pete’s head, the tear of foil by his ear deafeningly loud as he pulled back with a grin.  

“No dinner and a movie?” he teased, biting a brand to the curve of Patrick’s collarbone.

“You got piss water and a ceili,” Patrick arched his eyebrows as he gently urged Pete back and rolled the condom down his cock. “What more do you want, exactly? On your back now, there’s a good boy.”

Pete wanted to object, he wanted to snap back with something sharp and cutting, but more than that he wanted _Patrick._ He wanted to know the noises he made when he slipped inside of him, wanted to feel the heat of that mouth pushed to his throat as Patrick fucked into him. He wanted to know how he looked as he fell apart.

He moved to his back, propped on his elbows just as Patrick had done, legs spread and eyebrow raised as Patrick produced lube – expensive stuff, Pete recognised the brand name – and slicked his fingers. On his knees between Pete’s thighs, he grinned, cocky but softened with reassurance as he pressed his fingers to the tight pucker between Pete’s cheeks.

“I’d offer you to do it yourself,” he murmured, gently circling the rim of Pete’s hole with something that bordered on casual indifference. Pete could imagine that – legs spread and fingers pushed inside of himself while Patrick watched all hard cock and burning need – his dick twitching in response. “But I reckon I’ll do a better job…”

The finger slipped inside of him before he could reply, feathering softly over his prostate with practised ease. Pete was learning quickly that Patrick’s approach was flawless; know-it-all commentary followed by an immediate thunderbolt of crippling pleasure to strip the witty reply from his lips to nothing but ash. He blinked, jaw slack as Patrick rocked his finger slowly back and forth, a shattered moan torn from his lips as Patrick ducked his head to lap away the bloom of bitter salt from the head of Pete’s cock.

He was three fingers deep before Pete really comprehended what was happening, body welcoming the invasion of clever touch, desperately aching for something more. He spread his legs wider, stretched further to watch those elegant fingers press into him. Patrick frowned, concentration creased into his brow as he bit on his lip like he was figuring something out, some vexing problem that stuttered his thoughts. Then he did it, three twisted fingers curling perfectly against that hidden thrum deep inside that shuddered through Pete’s bones and left him crying out, massaging it constantly no matter which way Pete moved.

“If you don’t fuck me I…” he trailed off, he had no idea what he’d do. Cry, probably.

Fortunately, Patrick didn’t seem interested in finding out, gently withdrawing the stretching burn of his fingers, quickly slicking the latex-sheathed length of his prick. He braced over Pete, lined up with exquisite care and, just as Pete thought he might move, braced himself for the press of solid heat into his body, Patrick paused and gently touched his chin. Pete glanced up, met the warmth of a cloudless sky and a smile that seemed to hide tenderness behind playfulness.

“Hey,” he whispered, Pete nodded his acknowledgement. “You okay, now?”

“Yeah…” Pete trailed off, momentarily thrown. This was what he’d meant back in a bar half-drunk on tequila, this was the Patrick he’d tried to encapsulate with words that wouldn’t quite come because they didn’t quite make sense. This was the man he knew from the start he could trust but the words were no easier pinned to his back on an unfamiliar mattress. “I need…”

 

The rest of Pete’s answer was delivered in the bite of his nails into the plush round of Patrick’s ass, the drag and pull of _I need you_ given in five crimson bruises bitten into  tender skin as Patrick finally – _finally_ – began to press inside. Resistance first, as always, the blunted push of Patrick’s cock against muscle that screamed an objection. The give of it stung, brought tears to the corners of Pete’s eyes because – as his body seemed eager to remind him – he hadn’t done this in a while, needed to slow down, take his time, _stop…_

“Pete,” Patrick was rigid with restraint, sweat beading salt on his brow as he panted passionate need into the air between them. “Relax… I’m not gonna… D’you need me to…”

“’S’good,” he slurred, lust-drunk. “Don’t… Don’t stop…”

Patrick’s hand found the swollen length of his cock, thumb circling the sensitive flare of the head as he murmured reassurance that tore itself to nonsense in the static ringing in Pete’s head. Another inch, then another, legs spread in welcome and fuck yes more, faster, _harder…_

 

“Fuck, Pete,” Patrick hissed, hips flush to the curve of Pete’s ass, hands burning brands into his hips as he bit bruises into his own lower lip. “Fuck you feel so fuckin’ good…”

It was a cliché but encouraging to hear, Pete’s fingers tangling into the sweat-slick strands of Patrick’s hair, urging him down to brush their lips together for a moment until Patrick pulled back, twitching away from the cup of Pete’s hands to his jaw. He rolled his hips, a short thrust and then another, rising and lowering with his lip snagged between his teeth as he frowned as though Pete were a melody he couldn’t quite pin down, a stage direction that almost didn’t make sense and then…

 

“Holy fucking shit!” Pete cried out, back arched and heels sharp in the small of Patrick’s back.

 

“There you are,” Patrick chuckled softly into the curve of Pete’s throat as he began to thrust, deep, and sweet and caressing that shattering epicentre of perfect ecstasy with each precise movement. Is that what he’d been calculating, three knuckles deep into Pete and frowning concentration at the headboard? The precise angle, the exact pressure, the tilt and thrust of his hips to reduce Pete to nothing more than muttered moans and desperate, keening whines?

 

He bit his moans into Patrick’s shoulder, stifling cries with salt-sharp skin that bloomed blood-bright bruises beneath his mouth. Patrick’s hand found his hair, tilting him back with firm resolve as he breathed against his lips, “None of that now, let me hear you…”

 

He was, all at once, arrogant once more, plump, pink lips smirking cocky confidence as his plump, pink prick pulled stuttered groans and salacious moans from Pete’s chest until his head rang with it. His knees were shoved to his chest, Patrick’s weight pressing, pushing, hips fucking into him like a bassline in his blood. He  whispered something but Pete couldn’t hear it around the scrape of his shouts, the desperation of his own greedily growled curses as Patrick hit that thrum of needing want with each rock and roll of his hips.

 

Pete’s knuckles ached as they twisted into the sheets beside him, the arch of his back like the curve of his cock, leaking lust to the ink stained on his stomach. Pearlescent smears of wanton desire streaked against his skin as Patrick ignored his dick - blood-dark, twisted with veins and desperate for touch - muttering filth in a language Pete didn’t know but understood perfectly. His vision dimmed, lips aching with the need for pressure that Patrick seemed to avoid but Pete grasped for undeterred, fingers catching in soft blonde strands to yank him down, to crash their lips together in a mess of spit and clashing teeth.

 

Patrick slurred nonsense between kisses intense enough to tip the room on its axis, plush-plump lips grazing nerve raw skin as Pete pleaded for something more, that nudging push to throw him over the edge as his cock throbbed between their stomachs and Patrick’s prick dragged him inside from out with shuddering ecstasy.

 

“Oh fuck,” Patrick groaned, hips rolling waves and fingers pressing white-knuckled need into Pete’s thighs, the curse followed by something low and murmured, some whispered promise breathed against his ear.

 

Pete cried out - rough ragged sound ripped raw from his throat - the room contracting to nothing more than the cheshire cat curve of a knowing smile as Patrick wrapped his cock in the heat of his palm. “Maith?”

 

Pete nodded with no idea what he was agreeing to, hauling Patrick down once more to meet his mouth. He seemed done resisting, melting into the kiss as he scored a melody of trembling desire from elegant fingers through the shaft of Pete’s cock. Pete was lost to desperate sensation, nails scraping a crimson portrait of desire into the porcelain canvas of Patrick’s back as that honeyed voice whispered filth and sin against his lips on heated breath.

 

He could feel it building, the crescendo of sensation pooling, flooding conscious thought with tingling touch. That firework sharp taste of something more that lingered at the back of his tongue, that haunted him with irrational need and long buried desire. It was there in the touch on lips to his throat, the grunting breaths heaved with each thrust as Patrick drew deliciously closer along with him.

 

“Come on now,” Patrick whispered, biting a kiss to his lips that left them bruised and swollen-sore. “Come for me, that’s it…”

 

The graze of a calloused thumb to the nerve-raw tip of his cock, the roar of blood bright against his ears as he fucked his hips back into Patrick’s with grasping greed. Patrick shouted a curse, a stream of them, a filthy pastiche of English and Gaelic tripping exquisitely from his lips as the world seemed to fall away and Pete began to slip adrift.

 

It was powerful, racing through his bloodstream bound on blood cells to leave each nerve, each tingling inch of touch-sharp skin left raw with it. It was the crash of waves, the collision of stars and collapsing supernovae that painted his vision white streaked gold. He screamed - he was sure of it - a tangled mess of Patrick’s name as his release painted them both in streaks of ribboned-pale pearl, the slick of gossamer shine marking their skin, Patrick’s hand, Pete’s stomach and chest. He felt each pulse, each aching throb that echoed through his groin and down his cock, back through his stomach and chest to pound a beat in the base of his skull as Patrick tensed above him with a moan like a melody.

 

Eyes forced wide, he watched it happen through the tingling shocks of his own fading release. He watched Patrick’s eyes flutter closed, the way his lip bloomed brightly swollen and flushed between his teeth as his brow creased in delicious concentration. He watched the way his chest and shoulders worked as he rutted his hips into Pete - sweet bolts of staggering satisfaction sparking shockwaves - each thrust scored by a sinful sigh. He saw the precise moment Patrick fell apart, the way his spine stiffened straight and his lips loosed the sweetest cry of Pete’s name.

 

Pete swore in that moment, stomach streaked and sticky, hair a mess of sweat that stung his eyes, that he never needed to see anyone else come undone again.

 

Patrick collapsed to him, Pete’s legs released and thighs spread to take him, the slick spread of salt-mist sweat and cooling come barely considered as he dragged him close. His nose found the hollow of Pete’s collarbone, heaving stuttered breaths that tickled sensitive skin as Pete stroked his hair, his back and finally, oh God, _finally_ , found his lips. Tender mouths moulded for one another, the push of damp tongues and click of too-eager teeth, Pete was soaring.

 

“Jesus,” Patrick groaned, as he withdrew - slowly, gently, like he knew Pete would pulse with soreness - fingers soft against Pete’s cheek. “That wasn’t half bad.”

 

“Shut up, man,” Pete grinned, tooth-bright and probably manic. “That was fucking _awesome_ , don’t tell me you didn’t feel it. We’re fucking _good_ at fucking!”

 

“Okay, okay, watch yourself now,” Patrick grumbled in a way that seemed more theatre than anything else as he tossed the condom into his trash can and handed Pete an errant towel to wipe himself off.

 

The room seemed suddenly chilled as they laid side by side, caught in the awkward moment of _what next?_

 

“You, er… You can stay?” Patrick offered, hushed with hesitance. “I mean, if you wanted to.”

 

Pete was under the duvet before Patrick could change his mind, burrowing into the warm press of it as Patrick, with an indulgent laugh, slipped in beside him. Pete flopped across him, draped over his chest and wrapping him in arms and legs and a tangle of onyx-dark hair. Patrick tensed, just for a moment, but he didn’t object, the silence falling between them as he clicked out the lamp and settled down with a shivering sigh.

 

Pete was drifting close to sleep, warm and soft with something comforting curled in his stomach when Patrick whispered into the darkness.

 

“No gag reflex?”

 

“None whatsoever,” Pete confirmed, slurred with slumber.

 

“Interesting,” Patrick murmured with a sigh that spoke of the promise of the sweetest dreams. “Very interesting.”

 

~//~

 

There was a feeling in his mouth like he’d swallowed cotton balls, their fibers stuck to the roof of his mouth alongside a slightly-sour taste that mingled together to just be _unpleasant._ Cracking his eyes open to the unfamiliar surroundings, he took a moment to just look, considering he hadn’t done much looking at the furnishings the night prior.

 

The sheets were white, nothing special there but soft like flannel under the dark duvet. His toes curled a bit unconsciously as he replayed the night before in his head--sass and smiles, tender, insistent hands and feelings shuddering through him like wildfire that made him wonder how he’d ever forgotten that special kind of bliss. Bookcases flanked the door, crammed in a way his eyes told him at first glance was haphazard, but resolved in his mind after a moment to _some_ sort of system. Maybe Patrick would explain it to him someday. Hoodies hung on a rack dangled on the back of the door, and a desk was jammed under the window brimming over with papers and what looked like playbills, some sketches and a positively huge jar of pens, pencils and God knows what else. Turning his head gently as he rolled the muscles along his spine, he noticed the way the shoes were lined up neatly on the floor of the closet--so Patrick _did_ have a bit of OCD somewhere... it was in his footwear.

 

Finally feeling equal to the task at hand, he slipped soundlessly from the bed without so much as a twitch from the other side. Grabbing his briefs from the floor he pulled them on with only the slightest hobble of sore muscles before easing the door open. Maybe if he was lucky, he could grab some water and be back in time to what faces Patrick made when he woke up. Would he smile when Pete pressed kisses to his cheeks? Would he mumble as he woke up and curl into him, nestling closer and let him stroke gentle patterns on his back as he edged towards wakefulness?

 

He was greeted with three doors in the hallway and no sure way of knowing which was the bathroom and which was the unknown roommates. Not wanting to burst in on some dude’s slumber, he headed towards the kitchen--he definitely knew where that was from the first night. Grabbing a mug from the cupboard, he smiled; it was almost like a game, to move silently so as to avoid disturbing the silence the blanketed the apartment like a fresh snowfall. It reminded him of his childhood, of trying to figure out how to pour cereal without his mother hearing the telltale _plinkplinplink_ of Cocoa Crisps hitting the bowl…

 

“Yeah well, it’s not _my_ problem that _your_ vehicle company issued faulty airbags, now is it? That’s _your_ burden to bear, but it shouldn’t put me in a twitchy situation. Your feckin’ dealership is right the way across town and I have to be at work by noon, so either pay for my taxi back or I’ll see how your general manager likes--” The silence was disturbed by the front door flying open to bang against the wall and a wall of strongly-accented frustration in a distinctly _female_ voice. He nearly choked on his water as a pair of what sounded like incredibly heavy shoes clomped across the floor, and the mysterious roommate--he presumed--came into view. She met Pete’s astonished gaze and made a dismissive hand wave, still verbally castrating the person on the other side of the cell she had pressed to her ear as she rifled through several plastic grocery bags. “Thanks _very_ much, now, great decision-making skills you’ve shown. I’ll see you at 11, looking forward to it.”

 

Clamping the phone shut with a poisonous expression she looked him up and down, and he knew what she was seeing--ratty orange camo briefs, probably incredible bedhead, and a stunned expression. He, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more flabbergasted at what met his gaze--when Patrick had made oblique references to his flatmate, he hadn’t expected _this_. She had to be at least a head and a half taller, even with the four inch platforms on her knee-high boots. Fishnets covered her thighs up to the black miniskirt that looked like it was about to fall off her hips, except for the two studded belts looped around her waist. A ripped black crop-top hung off one shoulder where the wingtips of _something_ crested her collarbone, and her hair fell nearly to her waist in black dreadlocks punctuated with strands of deep red and stark white. Her eyes were ringed in eyeliner better than he could manage, and an errant thought flitted through his head that perhaps they could swap tips, but then blood-red lips were twisting into a sarcastic grin.

 

“You’re the new thing, so?” She shook her head as she resumed rooting around in her bags. “Feel like I fucked you myself, all the noise you two made last night, Christ above. Feels almost wrong, not paying for a show like that.” Pulling a white box from the bag, she shrugged as she moved towards doors Pete hadn’t noticed before. “Don’t worry, before you ask, he’s safe with me. I’ve known him nearly ten years and not fucked him yet, so I think you’re good.”

 

She stepped onto the balcony, the crisp morning air blowing into the apartment in a blast of refreshing coolness and cacophonous sound, and she lit a cigarette from the box. He followed, for some reason, water glass still half-full and clutched in his hand until he could see her gazing over the city. She glanced back, blowing out a puff of smoke and he smiled, feeling some of the shock melting away. “Um, I’m Pete?” He started, feeling like a total idiot--why didn’t he wave like a toddler while he was at it? But she just nodded, taking another drag.

 

“Nice to meet you, finally. I’m Niamh, you’re the persistent gobshite, yes?”

 

He shrugged and nodded with a smile--that was one word for it. She held her hand out, it was bedecked in rings, half of which looked like they could double as weapons. “That’s one way to say it, I suppose.”

 

There was a creak, a stumble-thump, and then a shuffling sound from the hallway. He turned, feeling the absurd sensation of being caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and saw Patrick dragging himself out of the bedroom. He vanished without a word behind a door that Pete now realized was probably the bathroom, and Niamah snorted. “Yeah, not one for morning smiles, that one. He’s been like that since he crawled from the womb or so his mammy says, so don’t take it personal.” She snuffed the cigarette out in an ashtray on the ground of the tiny balcony and shooed him back inside, shutting the doors behind them firmly. “Swear to God--” she murmured as her phone beeped once and then a second time. Her brows scrunched together as she scooped up the bags one-handed and took them into the kitchen, still glaring at the screen, before throwing it on the counter with a huff and yanking a box of Cocoa Shreddies free.

 

“Seriously, what is it with men and not just saying what they’re wanting? I thought us women were supposed to be the fucking challenging ones, but apparently not when you’re me, it’s all the limp-dicked pisspots that line the streets--”

 

“I see you’ve met Niamh.” Patrick rasped suddenly from beside him and Pete nearly jumped in surprise, but saved it at the last moment, masking the movement with a wide grin.

 

“Good morning, sunshine!”

 

Patrick just grunted, peering at his water glass like it offended him. “Ugh. You could have at least made coffee.” With that pronouncement, he shuffled to the corner of the kitchen, starting the kettle and pulling open a tin of coffee. Niamah plunked down at the small table and began munching on her Shreddies, regarding Patrick with a murderously plaintive expression.

 

“So, that idiot Colm finally texted me back. It took him two days-- _two days, Patrick!”_ She huffed as she took another bite. “This is what I get for making out with the first guy in a leather jacket who came into the bar, I suppose, but he was just so damn pretty, you know? Do you think I should let him stew, maybe not respond for a while? Or--” She grinned with a slightly manic glint that made Pete feel a tad bit nervous. “--I could show up to the bar he wants to meet at with that other one--Ian.”

 

“Which one was Ian, again?” Patrick mumbled from where he was measuring coffee grounds into the french press, not looking up.

 

“You know, the short one that had the lip ring? The stupid one?”

 

“Ah.” He turned and _finally_ looked at Pete. “When she says short, she means under five foot nine. Niamh’s preference in men is tall, dark, and bad.”

 

“Exactly why I told him your arse is safe with me.” She sniffed, glaring down at her phone as it beeped again. “Fuck it all…” She tapped out a reply as Pete slid into one of the chairs and Patrick poured water from the whistling pot into the press. He brought it over, three mugs clutched in the other hand, and plunked it all down on the table.

 

“Fuck why are mornings the worst?” He groaned, nestling his head into his arms on the table top, and Pete considered patting him on the head. But he reconsidered, instead setting his chin on his palm and regarding the other two occupants with interest.

 

“So... how did you guys meet?”

 

Patrick snorted into his coffee and Niamh gave him a wide-smiled, superior look. “He’s my knight in shining armor, ever since second year.”

 

“What she _means_ is she decided I was sufficiently outside her normal pool of meat used for chumming the waters, so, to be safe enough to hide from a disgruntled ex.” Patrick took another sip and his roommate rolled her eyes.

 

“You make me sound like a vampire, ripping through helpless men.” Pete didn’t think that description was wholly untrue based on the fifteen minutes since he’d meet Niamh, but kept such an opinion to himself as she continued. “Anyways, after I dumped this truly awful boy I saw him sitting all alone with his head buried in a walkman and decided there was no way he could possibly be one of that awful twat’s friends... so I sat down and began to tell him all about what a load of shite men can be and--” She waved her hand artfully, “--the rest is history.”

 

Patrick seemed disinclined to argue, merely taking deep draws from his coffee mug like it would magically revive him and give him mystical powers, and Pete nodded. “Seems like a great way to start a friendship.”

 

“Indeed it was, so.” Jamming the rest of her breakfast into her mouth she stood and brushed crumbs from her skirt, Niamh grabbed her phone and purse. “Well, I’ve got to get ready for work so I can go drop the damn car off for that warranty thing they kept calling about. Help yourself to the shreddies.” And with that, she clomped from the kitchen, surprisingly deft in her boots, leaving them in silence until the sound of loud, angry metal began to bleed from behind a closed door.

 

“She’s... much different than I expected.” He observed after a while and Patrick shrugged, burying his hand in the box of cereal to pull out a pile of cocoa-colored wheat.

 

“Expecting Dave King, were you? Typical Yank.” Patrick jammed the shreddies into his mouth, crunching loudly. He drained his cup and sat back, rubbing a hand through his hair. “She’s... well, she’s Niamh. Pretty sure she’s run through half of Dublin but a better friend you’ll never find, so.”

 

“You say such sweet things, Patty my love.” She snarked as she reached across the table to grab the forgotten pack of cigarettes. “See you later... off to go save the destitute, buck up the downtrodden, you know the drill. Pete, pleasure and _please_ start smoking... it’ll ruin your lungs so you can’t gift the whole block with a repeat of last night.” With a swirl of dreads and smoky eyeliner that stood in stark incongruity with her pink scrubs, she left the room.

 

“What’s with the scrubs?” Pete asked after the door slammed, taking the final drink of his coffee and scratching at his stomach.

 

“She works at a women's sexual health clinic in Ballymun.” He snorted as he grabbed Pete’s coffee mug and stood. “Pretty sure they keep her because she makes half the patients feel welcome and scares the boyfriends of the other half.” Placing the mugs in the sink, he washed them slowly with the lazy ease of someone who was comfortable in their home and who _maybe_ wanted the outlier removed from it... and an idea struck Pete.

 

“I’m kinda cold... gonna grab my pants.” He slid from the table and padded away, glancing at his watch. An hour before he needed to _seriously_ think about running to catch the bus on the corner of Duke Street to make his study group.

 

May as well make good use of it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! We love hearing what you think so comments and kudos are very much appreciated.
> 
> You can also chat to us on Tumblr [Flames](https://a-smile-like-that.tumblr.com/) is here and [Snitches](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers) (that's me!) is here!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear friends!!! Thanks for coming back for some more Irish!Patrick! Personally, I'm quite happy with how this chapter turned out, so I hope you don't mind the wait...but there's *so* much more to come! We were laughing the other day how this whole world has spiraled out of "wouldn't it be fun if Patrick sang this Ed Sheeran Song?" But that's fanfic, and it's half the reason we love it, right?

 

Ducking into the bedroom he glanced around again, eyes skipping through until inspiration struck as he spied the way the bed cocooned the back corner in darkness. Reaching down, he grabbed his pants and skittered around the bed to shimmy onto the floor, pretending like he was looking for his pants...and waited. As the minutes ticked on, he couldn't help but chuckle on the inside as he imagined Patrick pattering around the kitchen, burning time as Pete  _ “ _ looked for his pants” in the hope that he’d come out and would be able to kick him out like all the others. 

 

Footsteps creaked down the hall and Pete ducked just a little lower, just in case. He saw the bedroom door creak open through the assorted detritus he was pretty sure everyone accidentally kicked under their bed, and a pair of perfectly adorable bare feet came into view. 

 

“Um, did you get lost?” Patrick called as he padded into the room and Pete shuffled his feet a bit to cue him to where he was. 

 

“Just looking…” He called, jamming his head lower and hoping his voice would be muffled to reinforce the impression. Patrick’s feet came closer and he thought,  _ Almost...almost… _

 

“Pete, what— _ ooof!”  _ He gave a surprised huff as Pete tackled him down, dropping his pants onto Patrick’s face at the same time as he nuzzled down to his crotch. 

 

“Mmmm…” he purred, nosing at the rock-hard cock through the ratty pajamas and gratified at the way he arched his back just a bit when he mouthed gently at the base. “This for me?” 

 

“It’s just feckin’ morning wood.” Patrick huffed as he threw the pants off his face, but Pete was pretty sure he heard just a bit of breathy arousal under the grumpiness. “Goddamn nature and shite.” 

 

Deciding to jump straight to the main event, he shimmied the pajamas down around those hips that had moved with such precision the night before—distantly wondering if they were made with the same fabric as the couch—and sucked him down without preamble. 

 

“ _ Jesusfuck— _ “ Patrick’s whole body gave a delicious little shudder and Pete would have smiled if he could have. But, as they had established previously, he had no gag reflex and Patrick had a frankly  _ ridiculous _ cock. His mouth was  _ full _ of velvet-soft skin that pulsed under his tongue and he wanted  _ more. _ Reaching down gently, he slipped his fingers to dance over the velvet soft skin of his balls, bobbing his head in time with the motion of his hands. Patrick gasped and writhed beneath him, hands coming to twine into his hair with surprising gentleness, considering the dominance he had shown as he took Pete apart. 

 

Pulling off, Pete looked up and gave his best bedroom eyes, knowing his eyeliner was probably smudged and hoping he looked debauched in the best way. Patrick’s head came back from where he had thrown it back, his throat working deliciously as he gasped. But when their eyes met Pete felt something electric skitter down his spine, right along with a possessive spike as decisiveness settled into his bones. 

 

“I want you.“ He murmured as he pressed kisses to where his tongue had just traveled, to the surprisingly soft copper hairs clustered at his base. Patrick’s eyes shaded a darker blue as he lapped at the ridged head softly, watching the way tiny shudders worked through him like seismic shifts, tectonic plates grating as his body rearranged with pleasure. Knowing he was a shit, Pete gave him his best smile that hopefully said all the things that he’d been wanting to say for so long...things like  _ you’re perfect _ , and  _ I’m so fuckin’ into you _ , but instead he simply murmured a soft  _ please _ before swallowing him back down. 

 

If he was a musical man—which he wasn’t—Pete decided he’d want to write a song with the gasps and strangled curses coming from Patrick’s lips. He wanted to record them down and play them at night when he felt like there was nothing good left in the world, but they quickly dissolved away, melting into quick breaths that were increasing in their tempo as Patrick’s fingers fisted—still gentle but with the barest hint of a tug—into his hair as he tried to pull him off. But Pete simply shook his head as well as he could around the cock in his mouth, moaning a bit and pulling out his best tricks, swirling his tongue as he bobbed with ferocious speed, urging him to the finish line. 

 

And with a quick gasp of breath, Patrick groaned out something that wasn’t quite English but that he still understood perfectly as he came, hips stuttering upwards as he let out a high whine that shot straight to Pete’s cock, where he was already harder than a pine board. But he just ignored that as he swallowed it down, slowing and soothing him through the aftershocks before licking him clean. 

 

Patrick’s eyes were closed when he crawled up, his lips slightly parted as he gaped and Pete couldn’t resist sliding his hand across the fair cheek to dance along the curve of his sideburns. He pressed a gentle kiss to his lips...and was surprised when Patrick sighed and kissed back—deep and tender, sloppy with satisfaction and warm with happiness. It felt like sunshine and lazy mornings eating toast and smiles over the bar, and it seeped into him as Patrick kissed him like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be.

 

Soon enough the need for air took over and Pete pulled away for Patrick’s head to loll to his shoulder as a contented sigh rushed from plush lips. Smiling, Pete decided how he was going to play this out with the charming little Irishman who seemed to have stolen his heart...or at least, just a little bit of it. 

 

“I’ll see you later.” He murmured, grabbing his pants from where Patrick had thrown them off and sat up to shimmy his pants past his insistent cock. He shrugged mentally as he pulled the zipper up, trying not to wince-- _ it was just a boner _ . 

 

“Wait, you’re leaving? After--you should--” Patrick sounded half asleep and thoroughly confused all at once, and Pete couldn’t help but find that combination helplessly endearing. He looked back to see blissed-out blue eyes looking at him from under heavy lids, and he shook his head. 

 

“I’m fine. I’ll see you, okay?” Leaning back he pulled the duvet up to cover his naked lower half, tucking it around him gently before pressing a kiss to Patrick’s cheek, whisper soft and tender. Then he was standing, finding his shoe from where it had been kicked under the bed before glancing back to where Patrick was looking at him, still a little dazed and confused. 

 

Giving him a smile and a wink, Pete walked to the door of the bedroom and went out, expecting to let himself out of the tiny flat. But as he scooped his jacket and scarf up from where they had apparently thrown them the night before, there was a gentle padding of feet behind him. He looked up to see Patrick giving him a look somewhere between a smile and a question, plaid pants back up on his hips. 

 

“You know where you’re going, so?” He asked, and because Pete had been an insecure ball of nerves his whole life, he knew inner conflict when he saw it. Patrick’s tone was light and casual, but the way he rubbed at the back of his neck while wrapping the waist tie of his pajama bottoms around his other finger told a different story. But he decided not to push….and just nodded. 

 

“Sure do...think I’ll just make study group. Have a good day, call me?” And with that, not stopping to wait for a response, he slipped out the door with a cheekily-executed kiss blown towards the man with the tousled bedhead and clattered his way down the narrow steps. 

 

~//~

 

Two days after their night together, Patrick was mostly relieved that Pete hadn’t bombarded him with declarations of unending adoration. It wasn’t that he didn’t  _ like _ Pete, no, that wasn’t the case at all, it was just he’d been prepared for his inbox to jam up with a solid wall of ridiculous proclamations and wheedling to spend every minute of free time in one another’s pockets. Patrick wasn’t like that - at least, that’s what he told himself as he sprawled on the couch with a pizza and something terrible on TV - he was a take it slow kind of man. Or take it nowhere at all beyond the occasional ride when he felt like it. 

 

Yes, he decided as he crammed the crust into his mouth and watched Michael Chiklis do… whatever it was that Michael Chiklis was supposed to be doing, this was how he liked things. His own company aside from when he wanted someone else’s. 

 

Besides, Pete was as good as guaranteed to show up at the Castle Cross sooner or later. Patrick was almost looking forward to flirting with him across the bar and taking him home after his shift. He could feel the grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he thought about it, about the heat of Pete’s body under his own. 

 

“Your boyfriend not coming, so?” Niamh gathered her keys and purse as she burst from her room in a blast of Swedish death metal and perfume that smelled of patchouli. Patrick rolled his eyes. “None of that, now. I give it a week and you’ll be moving him in.”

 

“Feck off, Niamh,” he called at the back of her leather jacket as she headed out of the door. 

 

“Love you,” she shouted back, the raised middle finger somewhat at odds with the sentiment. 

 

He frowned as he caught himself checking his phone for a text. Silence didn’t mean anything bad, it just meant Pete understood their arrangement. He had his usual shift coming up, the one Pete knew he worked every Saturday. He’d show up then, Patrick was certain of it. 

 

But Pete didn’t show up. 

 

Patrick found himself waiting, coiled tight and eager, craning his neck and straining up onto his tiptoes every time he found himself aware of the door opening. His heart leapt a little in anticipation each time he caught sight of a fall of jet-dark hair or a flash of honey-gold skin, waiting for the mist and magic to carry him over the threshold with a twinkle of copper eyes. 

 

He didn’t. He wasn’t there for Patrick’s Saturday shift, nor his Monday night. By the following Saturday, he was close to giving up hope.

 

Patrick was aware that his set was lacklustre, that he didn’t smile nearly enough to engage anyone watching, that his irritable snap at Cian when he catcalled a twatty comment or two was unwarranted. It had been a week since their night together and he’d had nothing from Pete, not a phone call or a text. Since he was half expecting something in sky writing the whole situation was incredibly vexing. 

 

He was bent double packing his guitar away, his share of the tip jar barely enough to pay for a pint, when he felt a warm hand in the small of his back, the heat of it scorching straight through his shirt as he bolted upright. The grin was already splitting his face, the witty comment about not being able to contain himself stinging the tip of his tongue but instead of facing eyes like whisky, he met a broad chest. He let his gaze travel up with a sigh that he swore wasn’t disappointment, meeting Seamus’ smile with a half-hearted one of his own. 

 

“You okay now, little man?” Seamus grinned, all bright promise and barely disguised want as he plucked Patrick’s hat from his head, ruffled a hand through his hair and plonked it back down at a jaunty angle. Patrick swatted at him, irritated rather than charmed, teeth grit tight as Seamus’ eyebrows rose in surprise. “Not yourself today, so?”

 

“Just… thought you were someone else,” Patrick huffed his disappointment into a gusting sigh as he propped his guitar bag against the wall. 

 

“You know how to make a man feel wanted,” Seamus laughed, fingers lingering for a moment against Patrick’s shoulder. Ordinarily he’d be up for a ride without a moment of hesitation, there was something deliciously powerful about pinning such a huge mountain of a man to his bed and fucking him until he cried out. Seamus sensed his reticence, eyes clouding for a moment as he frowned, brows drawn and lips tight. “You alright there, Paddy, son?”

 

“Fine.” He wasn’t. He was thoroughly miserable but he didn’t really know why, couldn’t understand what it was that was gnawing away at him every time he glanced at his phone. 

 

“How about you come home with me,” Seamus offered, sparkling bright with Irish charm as he wrapped a muscular arm around Patrick’s shoulders. He smelled the same as he always did; of expensive aftershave and cotton shirt, shower gel lingering under it all. Patrick wanted to smell something else, to bury his nose in a neck that smelled of warm, golden skin and cheap, trashy cologne tinged with too much hair product. He wanted to kiss lips that weren’t set a clear foot above his own, to rest his hands on narrow hips and trace his fingertips over ink. 

 

“Not tonight, Shay,” he sighed and tried not to feel bad about the disappointment that flashed in Seamus’ eyes. He was doing well at fucking up and annoying everyone, or so it seemed as he slipped on his coat and picked up his guitar and messenger bag. “Got an early start in the morning, you know? Some other time, yeah?”

 

“Just fuckin’ call him you complete fuckin’ eejit,” Seamus shook his head with a roll of his eyes as he made to move back towards the bar - in search of a more enthusiastic participant in his flirting, no doubt. Patrick frowned, the question already framed by his lips as Seamus cut him off. “The feckin’ yank, you gowl, stop your fuckin’ mithering and give him a ring, face ache.”

 

Patrick stared after him with a scowl, fingertips absently tracing the familiar weight and shape of his Blackberry in his pocket. He didn’t need to  _ call _ Pete, that was bloody ridiculous, he just needed to go home, get some rest and get himself into a better headspace before work the next day. He reminded himself that as he headed out into the darkness.

 

Walking at night usually calmed him, the mist and magic of it sparking exhilaration in his blood as his shoes thud-thumped against the footpath. Tonight it simply felt oppressive, the thought of his empty couch and cold bed entirely unappealing. He paused at the Ha’penny bridge, leaning against the railings to watch the river flow beneath him, to ponder what on earth was wrong with him. 

 

He  _ liked _ Pete, he reminded himself sharply, the lad was good craic and, as he’d pointed out himself, he had no gag reflex. That was reason alone for Patrick to make sure he didn’t “accidentally” lose his number. But more than that, Pete made him smile in a way no one had since Sam, he made his stomach lurch at the thought of seeing him walk into the pub, he made the hairs on the back of Patrick’s neck prickle with each brush of his hand. On the other hand, although Patrick never made any secret of his bisexuality, he’d also never really considered men for anything more than fun. He’d never imagined a relationship where aftershave collections mingled, where he woke to the grate of a stubbled cheek against his shoulder, where no one complained about him leaving the toilet seat up. 

 

Okay, Niamh would probably still complain about that.

 

He propped his chin in his hand and gazed down at the murky water below him, watched the moon appear from behind the clouds in the glass-gleam surface, a disc of brilliant white in the inked depths. Why was he imagining a  _ relationship _ with Pete in the first place? Just another foreigner to get attached to, someone else that would whisper grand promises to him then disappear home. Maybe there’d be a smattering of messages, some half-hearted Skype conversations that eased the conscience into  _ we tried _ . Ultimately though, it would end the same way. It would be missed calls and ignored texts, visits cancelled and  _ maybe some other time _ until eventually the last text was made, the  _ it’s not working _ that would hurt him afresh. 

 

But he  _ liked _ Pete.

 

The river stared right back at him, its faeries and little folk firmly refusing to help him out with the tangle of his thoughts. He moved back with a huff, concentration broken by a stag party stumbling onto the bridge, all raucous laughter and matching t-shirts. He paused to push in his earbuds and cranked up his iPod, ambling along through the streets cast in platinum and silver by the moonlight, the crystal fog of his breath guiding the way. 

 

He paused at the neat wooden door and patted the pocket of his jacket, tongue clucking against the roof of his mouth as he hovered uncertainly for a second. He tugged out his earbuds with a snarl of frustration, shoving them down into his pocket as he raised his knuckles to rap sharply against the wood and waited for the chewing out about waking up people that had to be up and about early the next day.

 

The door swung open just as he was considering slinking away with his tail between his legs, a pair of pretty, topaz eyes blinking at him from under dark lashes. 

 

“Um… Hi?” he offered, quietly cautious as he waited for the door to slam in his face. He’d bedded the lad then ignored him for a week, it was no less than he deserved, after all. 

 

“Oh, it’s you. Hi,” Pete lounged against the doorframe in his skinny jeans and bare feet, shirt discarded somewhere and arms folded across his bare chest. An excruciating thought occured to Patrick - what if he had someone in his room? Some pretty little boy or girl from the campus sprawled out on his sheets and waiting for him to hurry back. Patrick cleared his throat awkwardly and turned to leave.

 

“Sorry, I should’ve called…” he trailed off awkwardly for a moment. “You’re probably busy, so.”

 

His hand was on the gate before Pete spoke again, the shaft of light from his hallway spilling out and bathing the path gold.

 

“Yeah,” he called at Patrick’s back. “You should’ve.”

 

“I… what?” Patrick turned, a glance cast back over his shoulder. Pete hadn’t moved, one leg crossed in front of the other, shoulder propped to the door jamb. 

 

“Called,” Pete clarified with a shrug. “It would’ve been polite.”

 

“You could’ve called me,” Patrick countered, leaning back against the gate, hand drifting towards the phone in his pocket. 

 

“No,” Pete shook his head and bit his lip for a second. “I think I did enough, don’t you?”

 

“I’m sorry…” Patrick nodded slowly, rejection icing his stomach and dulling his sparkle as he raised his shoulders in a defeated shrug. Pete was right and he’d fucked up, there would be no scratch of stubble against his lips during dawn-drenched kisses, no dark hair under his fingers as they watched TV with Pete’s head in his lap. No fuck-drunk dizziness as they took one another apart. With a heavy heart and a gusting sigh, he reached for the latch once more. “Sure, so. I’ll be getting along then, nice - ”

 

“Hey,” Pete’s grin was sunshine bright as Patrick turned back to him, heart a nervous lurch in his chest as Pete inclined his head, back and up to encompass some unknown place in a house that Patrick had never visited. “We’re marathoning Die Hard - wanna come in?”

 

Patrick paused, head cocked and lip bitten nervously as he shifted his weight from one foot to another, “I mean… I don’t want to impose…”

 

“Right,” Pete rolled his eyes and took off down the hallway like he knew Patrick would follow him. Patrick was slightly disconcerted to find that he  _ did, _ closing the door neatly behind him and wondering if he should take off his shoes. He glanced down at the threadbare carpet reminiscent of every student house he’d ever lived in. Probably not _. _ “Like you’re too good for Bruce Willis and pizza.”

 

By the time Patrick looked for, failed to find and substituted a coat hook for the bannister, his coat tossed across it haphazardly, Pete had already disappeared in a blaze of black hair and skinny jeans. He listened, unsure, for the sound of TV and laughter to guide him but the hall remained eerily silent. Which just served to emphasise the pitch of his yelp when Pete’s head reappeared from a sharply opened door with a wide grin and twinkling eyes, “You coming or not?”

 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Patrick gasped, heart pounding as Pete laughed at him. “I’m gonna put a fucking bell on you, I swear to fucking God…”

 

“Okay,” Pete brought his hands together like a motivational speaker. His housemates blinked up at him in a way that suggested living with Pete might be a particularly… eventful situation. “This is Oskar, dude in the blue is Matt, the guy looking like he’ll stab you for that last slice of pepperoni is Nicolas and the gorgeous lady in the back is Mei. Guys, this is Patrick, he’s - ”

 

“Giant cock, yes?” Nicolas smiled widely as he secured that last slice of pepperoni and Patrick felt his face heat slightly. “Yes, Pete is something of an… oversharer.”

 

“Oh good, he told you,” Patrick nodded and flopped to the couch. Pete sat at the opposite end, far enough away that they didn’t need to touch, but close enough that the  _ could _ . Patrick knew there was significance in the fact that they didn’t. “It’s easier if everyone knows. It gets awkward when I have to drop hints. Which one are we up to?”

 

“With a Vengeance,” Pete replied, shoving a beer into Patrick’s hand. It was Budweiser - because  _ of course _ it was - but it didn’t seem the time to complain as he cracked open the can. “The best one.”

 

“I don’t think you can just unequivocally dismiss the original like that,” Patrick objected lazily, idly shuffling a little closer to Pete as though it were entirely accidental. “Cinematically speaking…”

 

“Dude,  _ thank you!” _ Matt leaned across from his chair to clank his beer can against Patrick’s. “I tried to point this out to him.”

 

“All ridiculous,” Oskar shook his head in confused disbelief. “All utterly, totally  _ ridiculous.” _

 

“Hey, shut up!” Pete snapped. “This is a Die Hard household, thank you very much…”

 

The craic drifted in playful bursts of colourful banter, dwindling as, one by one, Pete’s housemates retired to bed. And occasionally, Patrick would rearrange himself on the couch, stretching as though his back hurt (although it didn’t). And Pete would shift against the cushions, knuckles popped and shoulders rolled like he was stiff (although Patrick suspected that wasn’t the case at all). By the time the credits began to roll, Pete  had burrowed into him, huddling under his arm with a content little sigh like a slightly irritating but eminently loveable labrador. Patrick relished the warmth that spread through his chest as his lips found Pete’s temple. 

 

Patrick could scarcely keep his eyes open by the time they were halfway through 4.0, his body hovering somewhere between sleep and half-gathered awareness of things happening around him. He got a waft of perfume, sweet and floral, as someone brushed past him, vaguely aware of whoever it was leaning over them to murmur in Pete’s ear.

 

“You look happy.”  _ Mei _ , his brain provided helpfully, thick and blurred through a fog of creeping sleep. He felt the shift of Pete’s cheek against his chest and imagined he smiled. “I’m glad.”

 

Patrick ached deliciously with tiredness, two shifts in one day and nights of poor sleep finally catching up with him as he sighed blissfully and nudged his nose through the hair at Pete’s crown. He smelled of hair product, the slight scorch of straighteners and the musk of his skin caught amongst the coarseness of it and Patrick idly recalled the feeling of it caught between his fingers as Pete sucked him slowly. His cock twitched a half-hearted agreement, the only part of him anywhere close to completely  conscious. He sighed, soft and relaxed, and wondered if he ought to start for home. 

 

Five more minutes…

 

“Trick?” Patrick pushed lazily at whoever it was with their nose against his ear, with hot breath tickling sweetly at his neck as they whisper-shouted like they thought volume could be contradicted by bad voice acting. “Trick, come on, it’s fucking freezing.”

 

“Hmm?” Now that whoever it was mentioned it, his toes were a little chilly as he rolled them against ratty carpet. “‘S’amatter?”

 

“Everyone’s gone to bed,” Pete whispered, his fingers stroking through Patrick’s hair. It felt good, warm and familiar as he leaned into it with a content little purr. “You’re staying, right?”

 

“Hmm,” he replied, easier to make sounds than words, let them roll like butter from his lips, eyes closed as Pete nuzzled against his neck. “Mmm…”

 

“Bed,” Pete said, tugging down the edge of his shirt collar and nipping a kiss to the exposed skin. “Now.”

 

Patrick groaned. He grumbled and he groused and he swore that Pete was the most irritating little gobshite he’d ever met as he tugged, pulled and generally hustled him to his feet. Old house boards creaked under his sock-soled feet - where were his  _ shoes? _ \- as Pete crowded him down the corridor, up the stairs and into a tiny single room that smelled of gym kit and damp towels. He wrinkled his nose but didn’t kick up a fuss as he flopped to the bed with a grunt. 

 

“You’re going to sleep?” Pete asked, the note of incredulity an accusation. 

 

“It’s two in the fuckin’ mornin’ so,” Patrick slurred, nose already tucked to a pillow scented sharp with Pete. “The fuck else am I s’posed to do? Dance a fuckin’ jig for you?”

 

“I meant you’re still dressed,” warm hands found his hips and his cock stirred with interest. “And on top of the covers.”

 

“Hmm.” Patrick raised his hips as Pete unbuckled his belt and slipped the jeans down. Mirror-flash memories skittered through his mind, flashes of bruise-smudged eyeliner and the knot of hands in pajama pants. But something else occurred to him; lips drawn into a grimace he tried to hide as he yanked those ridiculous jeans over his hips. Patrick blinked at the ceiling as Pete wrestled him out of his shirt. Patrick let his eyes flick lower to the outline of a half hard cock through skin tight boxers. Patrick grinned, sleep drunk and slurring. “Let me suck you off…”

 

The room was dark, illuminated faintly by the streetlights beyond the thin curtains and the moon-bright glow of Pete’s teeth in the gloom. The bed was too small, too narrow and a spring pressed hard into his arse as a cold draught skittered over his chest and stiffened his nipples. Pete’s fingernail found the peak of the left one, scraping softly as Patrick gasped and arched beneath him. Lips found his, sweet and sure as Pete licked into his mouth, tongue tasting of pizza and weak beer.

 

“Not tonight,” he shook his head and herded Patrick - limp limbed and barely resisting - under the covers, lips finding the flutter of his pulse point like he didn’t realise the effect it had on him. “I’m tired, you’re tired and…”

 

“You don’t trust me now?” Patrick supplied, suddenly wide awake as his knuckles traced the curve of Pete’s cheekbone. Pete shrugged, dark eyes pooled in darker shadow as his thumb fidgeted with the waist of Patrick’s shorts. Patrick felt - quite frankly - like the biggest dickhead in Dublin. “I get it. I don’t really… deserve it. Do I?”

 

“I want to,” Pete gave a tiny shrug, as though his thoughts of that matter didn’t really account for much. “Does that count?”

 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered it into the pillow, hot with shame. Pete shrugged again, bigger this time, a smile hovering uncertainly on his lips. “Come here…”

 

Pete fit to him like he was moulded for him, the drape of his arm over Patrick’s waist, the way his nose tucked to the curve of Patrick’s throat, how their hips slotted together with puzzle piece precision. It didn’t matter, Patrick decided through the suckerpunch of sleep dragging at the thin hold he retained on reality, it didn’t matter if Pete was with him for a month or a year or a decade. All that mattered - really, in the grand scheme of things - was that Pete was with him right at that moment. 

 

Maybe it was magic after all - he smiled at that as his eyes slipped closed - maybe when he stood on that bridge as a boy and prayed for a grand adventure, this was what the faeries had in mind. As his hand found the warmth of the small of Pete’s back, Patrick decided for the first time since Sam to let the moments link and see where they might possibly take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that!!! Leave us a bit of screaming--all caps comments are the best--or a quick click of the kudos so we know someone else is along for the ride <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a month *checks calendar* JUST!
> 
> Sorry, I know there's no real rhyme or reason to the updates but we're doing this on opposite sides of a clock and relying mostly on notes in google documents. BUT, enough about that, we have a new chapter. Will these two silly boys ever learn how to communicate with one another? They share a common language but that doesn't extend to their emotions, it would seem...

His back protested stiffly as a flurry of movement and a muttered _shitshitshit_ edged him hurriedly towards awareness, and by all the gods above he was _tired_. But gentle hands were tucking the covers back around him, and _that_ combined with the press of the wall against his back was enough to remind him of the previous night. Of his face hot with shame and Pete’s smile — more than he probably deserved — bright in the gloom before hands found waists and their breathing synchronized in an easy rhythm as sleep overtook them both.

 

Opening his eyes, he saw Pete pulling on a pair of jeans and yanking a hoodie from a pile next to a tiny desk. He slipped it on and zipped it up, fumbling for a moment to orient the zipper, and then grabbed a hideous beanie — purple and green striped — and yanked it over his tousled head. Patrick decided that _words_ would be a good plan… he didn’t want to let Pete slip away in awkward silence _again_.  “Give me a second and I’ll be up and out of your — ”

 

“No, don’t. You can stay and sleep, I’ve got a test I forgot about.” Pete slipped back to the bed to press a kiss to his forehead and Patrick felt a momentary twinge of early-morning grumpiness. What was he, a child to be kissed on the head? But he pushed that away as his eyes dipped closed under the weight of how little sleep he’d gotten the night before and the nights before that and nodded. Pete’s hand squeezed his, and he brought it to his lips, hoping that was enough of a gesture of intent, and drifted back to sleep.

 

He woke up several hours later to rain pattering against the roof and burrowed his face deeper into the pillow. It smelled of hair product and _Pete_ and he decided waking up surrounded by masculine scents might not be so bad. Rolling over with a huff, he blinked up at the sloped ceiling and thought.

 

_Pete_. He remembered the gentle hand in his, the way Pete had sighed in peace when he fell asleep tucked in tight to his chest. He thought about the quiet hurt in Pete’s eyes and how it almost looked like resignation.  The idea of Pete being _resigned_ to the idea he had been forgotten made something tighten in Patrick’s chest, and he felt it settle over him again that he really had behaved like an arse. Sitting up, he pressed his feet to the floor and was distantly thankful his socks had survived staying on his feet through the night. The carpet looked distinctly… unsanitary. But as he felt his body reluctantly edging towards wakefulness, he looked around the small room to distract himself.

 

The desk was cluttered with books and notebooks, papers and pens that looked chewed on the ends. There seemed to be just as many articles of clothing hanging in the closet as there were hanging from various fixtures around the room, and there was a bucket to rival the one his older sister had crammed full of hair straighteners, product, and other accoutrements of vanity. The sheets — now that he looked at them — were printed with comic book characters, and he couldn’t help but let out a snort at that. They were soft, however, speaking to many washings and the love of their owner and he realized that while Pete had all the inner ennui of a chihuahua, he seemed to love things deeply and enduringly… and that counted for something.

 

Did he still mean, in the cold rainy light of day, what he had agreed to in his sleep-drunk mind last night? Giving Pete a shot — a _real_ shot — meant so much more to him than it might mean to others. It meant things that made his skin crawl and his mind shrink away like it was being prodded by something icy hot… but the way his stomach had dropped as he touched the gate last night, that had hurt just as much. The reproach and distrust in Pete’s eyes… it had stung strangely deep.

 

Shaking his head, he pulled his clothes on from where they had been draped haphazardly over the chair on top of hoodies and shirts and vests. His eyes lighted on a newsboy cap with a longish brim under a pile of beanies and baseball caps. It was grey, and mostly sensible with only a few studs that betrayed its owner’s taste. He settled it on his head, hoping Pete wouldn’t mind too much that he borrowed it to ward off the rain, and grabbed one of the pads of sticky notes that littered the desk and a pencil.

 

_ Thanks for last night… and maybe give  _

_ me another shot? I’ll make it worth it.  _

_ ~ Patrick _

_ Ps — I borrowed your cap, hope that’s alright. _

 

He made up the bed neatly, fluffing the pillows and straightening the duvet until it looked like something his mum wouldn’t sniff at the sight. Settling the electric pink sticky note on the pillow, he stared at it for a moment before snatching it up, scribbling a quick _“xo”_ after his name and replacing it before he could second guess himself.

 

Pulling the cap down over his brow, he went in search of his shoes before heading out into the lashing rain. He was halfway home on the eerily quiet streets before something occurred to him and he fumbled his phone out of his pocket, ducking under a doorway for relief from the rain for a moment.

 

_It’s Sunday, isn’t it? Or did I sleep through?_

 

Pete’s reply pinged through a moment later.

 

_I fgrd tht out. 2 embrsd 2 cum hme so fnshd an esay instd x_

 

There was only really one appropriate reply.

 

_Feckin eejit x_

 

He waited for a minute or two for a reply, shoulder jammed to the damp brickwork as he watched the city start to wake around him. He could still smell Pete faintly and wondered absently if it was the way his clothes were draped over Pete’s in the bedroom, or the scent caught in the fabric of the cap. If it was the former, he wondered if the smell of his own skin clung as insistently to the clothes Pete shrugged on that morning, if he was pulled up short by a brief burst of Patrick’s aftershave every time he moved in the university library.

 

No reply was forthcoming and, as he shoved his phone firmly down into his pocket and squinted up irritably at the sky, Patrick decided that was okay. There was no point in rushing, he was already drenched, so he took his time, pausing at the florists just rolling up the shutters to obtain something pretty and sweet-smelling then continuing on his way back to the flat.

 

Patrick had a problem. And that problem could only be solved by someone particularly special.

 

~//~

 

“Smell the roast, did you?” Patrick was hustled into the kitchen with a pat to his arse from a pair of oven mitts. “And who are you expecting with flowers like that? The Queen of Sheba?”

 

“Ah now, nana, she’s not a shade on you,” he grinned, stooping for the kiss pressed to his cheek as she gathered the roses from him and set about locating a vase.

 

“Flatterer,” she accused him with no malice whatsoever, only tutting slightly as he helped himself to the biscuit barrel. “None of that now, you’ll spoil your dinner.”

 

“Never!” he declared around a mouthful of chocolate digestive. She seemed to debate if she should scold him or not. She decided not. “You know I’ve always got room for your cooking.”

 

“Hmm,” she smiled at him, brimmed with grandmotherly affection. Patrick knew his nana didn’t have a favourite grandson, not officially anyway. Unofficially, he knew it was him, hands down. “So, what is it that’s troubling you?”

 

“Nana!” he objected, scandalised, hand clutched to his chest in a deliberate mock-up of hurt. “Can’t I just come and see you without having some kind of problem?”

 

“You showed up right before feeding time with flowers,” she pointed out, not unreasonably, her wooden spoon pointed at him like an accusation. “Now, out with it.”

 

Patrick considered arguing but given the sheer volume of food that was being prepared, the dining room table would be crammed full of his siblings, nieces and nephews, cousins and possibly the local postman within half an hour or so. Instead, he moved to the stove and removed the industrial sized pan of potatoes, draining them and taking the masher from his nana without a word and setting to work. It was easier to talk while he did something useful, something that required a bit of effort but not much concentration. As the potatoes obediently collapsed to mash, he took a deep breath and began.

 

“It’s a boy, nana.”

 

“Of course it is,” she patted his arm affectionately but didn’t look at him. She knew he hated to be stared at while he chewed his way laboriously through the think-talk-resolve process. “What about him?”

 

What about him? Patrick almost wanted to laugh. Oh, nothing much, just the fact that he was a born and bred American who would return from whence he came in a matter of months. He pondered it for a moment as he began to work the butter and cream into the mashed potatoes.

 

“I think I really like him,” he muttered slowly, as though he didn’t quite believe it himself. His nana hummed quietly. “But I’m scared.”

 

“Scared?” she prompted after a moment or two, when she realised he wasn’t going to say anything else. “What of?”

 

What _wasn’t_ he scared of?

 

“I’m scared he’ll be like Sam,” he admitted softly, rhythmic motion on the masher slowing to a gradual halt. “I — I think I could really care about him, nana. But — how do I know I _should?”_

 

“Good looking, is he?” she asked with a low chuckle. Patrick reached for his phone and scrolled through to the one picture Pete had insisted they take together using Patrick’s phone on their tour of the city. It was in the Gravity Bar, the city laid out behind and below them, their heads very close. His nana laughed softly. “Ah yes, nice bit of stuff, isn’t he? Lovely smile.”

 

She moved away as Patrick continued to stare down at the picture, his heart kicking hard against his ribs as he took in the way he looked. There was something in the way he leaned in to Pete that he’d never seen before, the sparkle in his smile and eyes that was never really captured in pictures. He looked… happy.

 

Before he could move, his nana pressed something into the hand that cupped the phone. A key, labelled simply “the cottage” on a little red plastic tag. Patrick felt his eyes widen as the memories of a dozen different childhood summer holidays flooded back; the tang of salt spray in the air down by Galway Bay, playing with his cousins along the cliff tops and collapsing into bed, exhausted on sunshine and too much ice cream.

 

“Nana,” he began sternly, attempting to push the keys back to her even as she stepped away with an irritated huff. “I barely bloody _know_ him, I’m not taking him on feckin’ _holiday!”_

 

“Now listen here, young man,” her hands were on her hips and Patrick decided it was probably best to be quiet, “I’d known your grandad six weeks before I married him and look how that turned out. Take him to the cottage, just for a few days. God knows, there’s nothing else to do there but talk,” she wasn’t joking, the last time someone suggested installing a television or internet connection (in 1998, he hastened to add) she’d hit the roof and now everyone was too scared to bring it up again, “so go along, talk to the lad, and see what you decide.”

 

Patrick considered arguing further but the door crashed inward and his eleven-year-old sister hurled herself at him with a shriek. So instead he just glared quietly and pocketed the key.

 

Later, stomach uncomfortably full of roast beef and apple crumble with custard (though thankfully not served at the same time) he extracted his phone and, without giving himself time to deliberate or doubt himself, he fired off a text message.

 

_What are you up to next week? x_

 

It took a minute or two for Pete to reply.

 

_Nthn mch, rdng wk. Nt sre wot tht mns bt sms lk clss is cncld. U? X_

 

He took a deep breath.

 

_My family has a house over near Galway. It’s totally fine if you don’t want to, but it’s empty and I wondered if you might want to go? Doesn’t matter if not. Just if you’re bored x_

 

It took him approximately twenty seconds for sweaty-palmed panic to set in and have him tapping out a hasty follow up.

 

_You know what? It was a daft idea, just ignore me. I sound like some kind of weird despe¦_

 

A reply fed through before he could finish typing.

 

_I’d love to. When? x_

 

He didn’t know if it was the content of the message or the fact that Pete typed it out in actual words that made him smile the widest.

 

~//~

 

“But you said _long drive,”_ Pete threw air quotes around the last two words as he lounged, feet propped up on the dashboard of Patrick’s car. “Do you know where I’m from? Once you’re out of the city you can drive for two hours without seeing a _house._ You’re telling me we only have to drive two hours to get across the whole _country?”_

 

“Do you know where _I’m_ from?” Patrick countered, eyebrows raised as he swatted Pete’s feet down to the floor. “Like, did you consult a map before you moved over here, so? How big do you think Ireland _is?”_

 

Pete grinned behind the shield-safe security of his hood, cuffs pulled down over his wrists as he watched Patrick watch the road. The multi-coloured blur of traffic whipping past them on the other side of what Patrick insisted was a _motorway_ and not a _freeway_ streaked a dozen different shades of light across the lenses of his glasses as he bit his lip and shook his head with a smile.

 

“So,” Pete rummaged in his backpack for a moment, “you’re saying you _don’t_ want a PB and J?”

 

“Never said _that_ , now did I?” Patrick grinned, mouth open and lips lingering against Pete’s fingers for just a moment too long as Pete fed in a chunk, his tongue chasing a smudge of peanut butter along Pete’s thumb. “Mm, s’good, excellent ratio of peanut butter to jam — not _jelly_ , just so as we’re clear — cheap, plastic bread. Lush. You’re in charge of sandwiches from now on.”

 

_“From now on.”_ It was hardly a proposal, not exactly house keys and domesticity. What was it? Half a promise of the possibility for the potential of a future? Pete bit absently at his thumbnail and resolved not to overthink it.

 

He then immediately began to overthink it.

 

There were questions, hundreds of them, if Pete just cared to take the time to pluck a handful from the overripe hang of them just out of his grasp. One shake though — by which he meant one false twist of his lips and twitch of his tongue — and they’d crash down and bury him (and by extension, Patrick) alive. Crushed to death by preposition on a _motorway_ somewhere between Dublin and Galway.

 

What would his mother say?

 

What it meant, he decided, chucks kicked off and socks shoved to the dashboard once more, was that Patrick seemed to be at least somewhat willing to at least try to give Pete a shot. Pete had tried over the years to curb his constant need for reassurance from everyone sucked into what felt, at times, like the black hole of his personality. Pete was a doomsday clock, he ticked only down towards destruction and it took a lot of effort to snip the red wire and halt the process. He wasn’t ready to be tossed back into the flames.

 

“So, tell me about this house,” Pete asked, all bright-eyed casual conversation. “Is this just an elaborate plan to separate me from my friends and harvest my organs?”

 

“That’s the second time you’ve accused me of that,” Patrick grinned, sun-sharp and glowing in the low winter sunlight that streaked psychedelic brightness across Pete’s vision. “Do I look like an organ stealing kind of guy?”

 

“It’s always the ones you least suspect,” Pete reached to grab at Patrick’s iPod in the centre console, scrolling through for road trip anthems, “in my experience, anyway. Aha! What’s this?”

 

_This_ was an innocuous artist title _My Stuff_ right between _Marvin Gaye_ and _Nina Simone._ A glimpse into something half forbidden and Pete almost wanted headphones to savour it, to keep it to himself for a moment as he clicked the central button and found himself faced with six tracks. He closed his eyes, ran his thumb round the touchpad like a record scratch and let the Gods decide.

 

_Every word’s a new regret if you say it right, right? Every wound can be forgotten in the right light._

 

Pete would recognise the voice in any context, honeyed warm and wrapped in something that sounded an awful lot like heartbreak and fear of not being remembered. Next to him, Patrick tensed in his seat, caught in a halfway point between objection and surrender as he bit down onto his lower lip and stared through the windshield with squared shoulders and white knuckles.

 

“Was that you?” Pete asked, pointlessly redundant as the song drew to a close. He knew who it was. “You’re — you wrote that?”

 

“Yes.” A muscle ticked in Patrick’s cheek. He reached for the iPod and set it on shuffle, the speakers surrounding them with Costello as Patrick let out a breath.

 

“So… you were in a band?” Pete prompted. “Or did the guys at the bar record it with you?”

 

“No.” Patrick’s fingertips drummed against the steering wheel. “I — well. I did it myself.”

 

“You?” Pete repeated, stupefied. “Recorded all of that? By yourself?”

 

“I play a lot of instruments,” Patrick shrugged. A signpost flashed by; Galway 10 miles. Patrick was glowing crimson from the collar of his shirt to the very tips of his ears. Pete had never felt more drawn to kiss someone as he did right at that moment, lips tingling with the ache of it. “Stop feckin’ _staring_ at me, gobshite, I’ve not grown an extra feckin’ head now, have I?”

 

“You’re a mystery, Trick,” Pete declared with a laugh as he reached for Patrick’s hand. Patrick accepted, lacing their fingers together and pressing them to his thigh as he drove. “A riddle, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in an argyle sweater vest.”

 

For once, Patrick didn’t have a snappy retort.

 

The cottage was beautiful. Large, stone built with a slate roof and windows tucked amongst the eaves, pretty even in the drizzle misting down from a steel grey sky. Pete took a moment to breathe in the air tinged with salt spray from the ocean, close enough that he could hear it swelling against the cliffs. For a moment, he imagined a life where he could sit at a desk close to one of the sash windows and watch the sky shade blue to grey and back again as he wrote. Patrick fumbled with bags and keys, a smile shot golden over his shoulder as the door cooperated and they could step inside.

 

“So,” Patrick began, as the door clicked behind them. It smelt unlived in but not unloved, a hint of home under the still-air scent that lingered from lack of movement. “I’ll give you the tour, shall I?”

 

For something described as a cottage, it was awfully big; an open plan living space with sofas and a kitchen and an enormous dining table (he asked, eyebrows raised, precisely how big Patrick’s family was. _Rabbit-esque_ , was the sardonic reply). Upstairs, five bedrooms, three with a couple of sets of bunk beds apiece and what looked suspiciously like further trundle beds beneath, the other two double rooms with large beds and views across the cliffs. Finally, an enormous bathroom with a shower that looked big enough to comfortably host an orgy Caligula might consider a little over the top, an equally well-appointed bathtub and views across the fields that rolled away behind the house. Pete was in love.

 

“We’ll be rattling around,” Patrick murmured apologetically as he set his bag down carefully in the centre of one of the beds. “It’s different when everyone’s here. Uh, so, the other room is — ”

 

Pete set his own bag down next to Patrick’s with a grin, “So, what’s the plan?”

 

“We could take a walk into the village,” Patrick suggested, hands shoved down into his pockets. “There’s a nice little pub…”

 

“Do I need to change?” Pete looked down doubtfully at the black hoodie tossed carelessly over a flannel shirt. Patrick looked him over, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed heavily.

 

“No,” he said, shaking his head as he shrugged on his coat and slipped his wallet into his pocket. “You look grand.”

 

The walk to the village was short, ten minutes at most, the rhythmic thump of their footsteps against the footpath twisted with the sound of their breathing. Pete glanced at Patrick from the corner of his eye, the way his gaze flitted down to their hands at their sides. He saw the breath sucked in and held as Patrick reached across and grasped, warm fingers and the bump of knuckles that slotted together just so. He saw him breathe out and relax, a smile tugging the corners of his lips.

 

“I’m glad you came,” he said, gruff and low with his head ducked to avoid awkward eye contact. “I know it sounded weird, asking you along and that, but — thanks. For giving me another chance.”

 

There were many things Pete wanted to say, he wanted to admit that being ignored hurt, of course he did. But he also wanted to reiterate points made countless times before; that he had no idea where things might go but he wanted to find out, that he didn’t intend to come and go from Patrick’s life if things worked out. He wanted to say that he liked Patrick, more than he’d liked anyone in a long time with a weird sense of déjà vu, as though the universe had intended them to meet in another time and place. But he also knew that saying stuff like that had a tendency to freak most people out, so instead he simply squeezed Patrick’s hand.

 

“Of course,” he replied. “You’re — you’re pretty cool.”

 

The pub was small, dark beams and low ceilings that managed to make Pete feel tall as he ducked through a tiny ginnel into the bar. The barman recognised Patrick — Pete started to suspect that there were maybe a couple of hundred people in Ireland, total, and Patrick knew all of them — already pulling a pint of Guinness as they shrugged off coats and settled across from one another next to the fire. Pete wrinkled his nose and Patrick laughed.

 

“Pete,” he nodded towards the fireplace. Pete stared at him blankly. “No, you feckin’ eejit, not Pete, _peat_ , P-E-A-T. That’s what you’re smelling. Good, isn’t it?”

 

Pete wasn’t sure it was, but he agreed anyway and smiled at the way Patrick called for a Budweiser for him with a completely straight face. Tucked away as they were, Patrick seemed safe from the to-and-fro of patrons that might want to pinch his cheek or ask how his nana was doing and Pete watched him take a long pull of his Guinness, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

 

“So,” Patrick began after a moment of silence where Pete bit his tongue to stop himself from blurting out something ridiculous. “Favourite Terminator film with three reasons why. Go.”

 

Pete was still talking when their plates were set down in front of them; mince and dumplings for Patrick, steak for Pete, his knife a flamboyant arc of movement that only made the waitress flinch a little as he finished with a nod, “So, _that’s_ why Terminator 3 sucks and 2 is the best.”

 

“Interesting,” Patrick took a mouthful of his food and chewed slowly, swallowing and looking up with a grin as he reached across and stole a fry from Pete’s plate. “I mean, the correct answer was _Terminator films are all generally awful_ but to each their own…”

 

“You’re an asshole,” Pete laughed, as Patrick popped the fry into his mouth with a grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

 

When they’d finished eating and Patrick returned from the bar with fresh drinks — wilfully ignoring Pete’s offer to pay — he hovered uncertainly at the table. Pete glanced up, belly full and warm with contentment.

 

“There’s a sofa over there,” Patrick observed quietly, nodding to the other side of the fireplace. “We could…”

 

Pete scrambled up, terrier fast as he hurried to collapse onto cushions with a groan, “Much better.”

 

“Gobshite,” Patrick muttered as he placed their drinks down on the low table in front of them, but he smiled when he said it, soft with affection. He slipped an arm casually around Pete’s shoulders as he sat down. Pete swore every nerve ending in his body rerouted and refocused on the way Patrick’s thumb traced his spine from his hairline to his collar and back again.

 

Pete snagged the drawstring of his hoodie and shoved it between his teeth. It was a woeful distraction from the other things he wanted to do with his mouth.

 

Patrick’s lips brushed his ear, “I’m going to kiss you, that okay, so?”

 

Pete nodded, dazed, head turned and lips parted as Patrick met him, soft mouth and warm hands. Patrick tasted of Guinness, mellow and yeasty with a hint of bitterness as his tongue gently licked into Pete’s mouth. Pete held him close, heart beating bruises into his ribs as he reached up and gently tugged at the fall of blond hair that feathered from beneath the bottom of Patrick’s hat.

 

“I’ve wanted to do that all day,” Patrick breathed against his lips when they came up for air. “Amongst other things.”

 

“Next time,” Pete’s voice cracked a little and Patrick laughed, his thumb tracing the flow of Pete’s jaw, “just go with it.”

 

He wanted to scramble up right then and there, pull Patrick to his feet and bundle his coat around him and hurry him out the door. But there was something lax and easy about the way Patrick was snugged against him, something unhindered, and after all… their drinks were still full.

 

“Did you like… come here a lot? Growing up?” He asked, taking a pull of his beer before promptly sticking the string of his hoodie back between his teeth. Patrick looked at him askance as he reached forward to grab his own drink off the low table.

 

“ _Here_ like Galway? Or the pub?”

 

“Both?” Pete replied hopefully, like a child waiting for a story of a young Patrick running through the grass, throwing rocks off the cliffs as the salt spray blew his golden hair like a halo. But instead, he got a shrug and a smile.

 

“Well, the cottage has been in the family for basically forever. My nana grew up there and I’m fairly certain someone at some point built the whole thing by hand, so. But yes, we came here at least once a summer for as long as I can remember, right up to when I went to University.” An errant memory made his lips twitch for a minute as he glanced at the bar. “And I actually grew up with Shane’s son. He used to let us help busy evenings and give us a fiver at the end of it. Quite exciting to fetch towels and glasses and be treated like a man when you’re just shy of thirteen.”

 

Nodding, Pete imagined it as he sipped, a pre-teen Patrick wide-eyed and excited, fetching glasses to be filled and wiping a bar he was barely tall enough to see the top. He wondered if that Patrick had walls and watched warily for the customers who smiled too wide, or if he laughed and told jokes with his friend, uninhibited and carefree. But he didn’t ask — Patrick would tell him in time, if he decided to trust him, and he figured that was probably the best course of action. So he just gave him a smile before leaning against Patrick’s solid shoulder, enjoying the soft warmth that bled through his shirt, and looked at the fire.

 

“I like this.” He murmured, deciding that was the least obnoxiously overt statement he could make and hoped it wasn’t still too much.

 

But Patrick just shifted, murmuring _me too_ before tucking his arm around Pete’s shoulders and pulling him closer. He felt like his heart would explode from the thrill of it — from the ease of the motion and the way it felt tucked into him, like he was safe and shielded. Staring into the fire, he ran his thumb across the smooth rim of his glass and whispered a prayer towards whatever gods lived in the embers and sparks that flew skyward that this might last.

 

But once their drinks were finished, he twisted his head to look up at where Patrick was smiling gently as he looked at the flames. Blue eyes flickered down to his and he decided to go for it, craning his neck just a bit more to press his lips against Patrick’s, humming when he felt the arm around his shoulders tighten just a hair more. The kiss felt… _easy_ , he realized as they broke away and gathered their coats, shrugging them on as Patrick called out what he assumed was thanks to the landlord in a stream of laughing Gaelic. Things with Patrick had never been _easy_ before, it had felt like a marathon to get him to open the door to his heart just a crack. But when a pale hand flashed out to claim his as they ducked out through the low doorway, it made him feel like _maybe_ this was a glimpse of what could be.

 

They stopped at a little store on the walk back. Patrick shrugged when he asked what he wanted and just smiled as he shoved his hands in his pockets and gestured with his chin. Pete took that as free invitation to choose and settled on a six pack of something under the _“Irish Craft Brew”_ banner called Metalman. Patrick’s brows rose as Pete set it on the counter and paid, but when he reclaimed his free hand, tucking it into his pocket with his own he leaned close and murmured, “Pick that one just for the name, did you?”

 

“Why would you think that?” Pete grinned, pulling away for a moment to break one free, handing it over before cracking the seal on his own.

 

“Because you’re wearing a Metallica shirt under your flannel.”

 

“So observant.” Pete teased, taking a sip and nodding. “But hey, its a _good_ beer with a great name. What more can you ask for?”

 

Shrugging as he took a sip, Patrick made a face. “You Americans and your obsession with hops. My brother would love this, so.”

 

“How many brothers do you have, again?” He asked, hoping for a tiny bit more insight into the mysterious Stump Family Tree.

 

“Two, one older, one younger.” He took another sip and looked at the bottle again. “Seems to grow on you as you keep going. But anyways, yes, two brothers, five sisters.”

 

“You weren’t kidding about the whole _rabbit-esque_ thing, were you?” He looked at the brightly-painted buildings as they walked, the cobbles under their shoes and felt like there really might be a little bit of magic in it all.

 

“No, not at all. It was a regular madhouse most days what with Liam always yammering about sports and Aibreann and Aoibhe moaning that the twins — Caoimhe and Múireann — had gotten into their makeup, while Connor — he’s my younger brother, so, yelling that he was trying to read and making more noise trying to get silence than the rest of them all put together.” A small smile touched his lips, and Pete swore that he looked almost _fond_. “And little Siobhan’s just sitting on my lap sucking her thumb while I eat and try to ignore them all.”  

 

“Sounds like a good time.” Pete wondered what it would have been like, to grow up like that--all raucous chaos and good-natured smacks — rather than the stiff propriety of his family’s echoing Chicago townhome. “But it sounds like the boys got the easy end of the stick… those are names even I’ve heard of, but I’m guessing the girl’s names totally _don’t_ look like they sound at all, huh?”

 

Patrick nodded with a chuckle, draining his beer and chucking it in the garbage someone had left out for collection as they started out of the town. “Yes, mammy had a bit of a thing for traditional girls’ names, for some reason. Had it been the other way around, I’d be Odhran or Turlough and then where would we be?” He grabbed another bottle from the pack, cracking it open before giving Pete a sideways glance. “You’ve just got the two, so?”

 

Nodding as he considered if he wanted another, Pete decided against it and just re-laced his fingers with Patrick’s. “Yeah — Hillary and Kevin. They’re everything my parents hoped for — she’s a part-time stock broker and Kev’s a lawyer.” Patrick’s thumb swept across his wrist and he looked over as the silence stretched between them, hanging in the moonlight like a breath. He looked like he wanted to ask more, to probe into it, but instead just squeezed his hand and tugged him closer as the cottage came into view.

 

“And you’re a world traveler, probably the most cultured of the lot after seeing the finest nation of them all, so.” Pete laughed at that, the pall of his parents’ disappointment lifting as Patrick tugged the keys from his pocket and fitted them to the latch.

 

“Definitely. I don’t think any of them have really left Chicago so… yeah. I’m the first Wentz to cross the pond.”

 

He was rewarded with a snort at that. “Regular Christopher Columbus, you are.” Patrick hung his coat on the hook and toed off his shoes under a bench that looked scuffed and worn with many shoes kicked against its legs. After doing the same he hovered awkwardly as Patrick picked up the half-empty pack of beers. “I’m, um, going to put these in the fridge?” He said, giving him a smile full of nerves that Pete both hated and understood.

 

“Good plan. I’m gonna grab a shower.” Pete nodded to himself — a good move, a bit of space before the question of two king beds in the big bedroom and an empty call log demanded awkward looks and bitten lips. He slipped into the bathroom, grabbing a pair of clean boxers from his bag before shutting the door, and found shampoo and soap exactly where Patrick had said it would be. Soon enough he was under the spray, rubbing the menthol-scented cleanser through his hair and wondering if he should try to straighten it before Patrick saw that it _wasn’t_ actually all emo, all the time when it came to his beauty routine. That made him pull up short mentally… _did_ he want Patrick to see those parts of him? The less-than-perfect parts that were a little bit broken, a bit cracked, did he dare take the chance?

 

He bit his lip as he rinsed the lather from his hair and slicked it with conditioner and thought about it — Patrick, for all his bluster and tightly-wrapped armor had never once been judgemental, been unkind. Sarcastic, yes, but Pete liked that. When he really thought about it, though, it really came down to the question of if he was willing to give Patrick the chance. To forget about the way his phone had stayed silent for the week after their night together, the way his heart had ached with the feeling of being unlovable and utterly rejected. It was completely obvious the little fiery Irishman was trying — _hard_ — to atone for that, aware of what he’d done. But he didn’t know _why_ it stung Pete so deeply… so who was to say he wouldn’t do it again if he grew bored, or simply couldn’t be bothered to put up with Pete’s shit?

 

Rinsing off the suds he had lathered all over himself, he started to wash out the conditioner and let out a sigh. He was _here_ after all… if driving a _long_ distance with the guy wasn’t enough to warrant a bit of trust, he was an idiot for coming in the first place. There was something deep in his bones that _ached_ for the way Patrick’s eyes lit up when he laughed, the quick-wittedness of his answers and the way his fingers felt when he slid them across Pete’s skin. And yes — he admitted with a snort as he turned the water off — he’d be lying if he wasn’t hoping to get laid again. Patrick was _good_ in bed.

 

Two minutes later, he was fluffing his hair in the mirror and deciding that it was a calculated risk to not straighten it right away… let Patrick see it for all its curly disaster. Maybe crazy shower-hair was the relationship litmus test he had neglected in previous relationships. Hanging the towel up neatly on the rack, he opened the door to see Patrick setting something on the nightstand — mugs, it looked like.

 

“I made us hot chocolate? It’s only a little out of date, but if you don’t like it I — ”

 

“Thank you.” Pete smiled as he sat on the bed, taking a mug and sniffing appreciatively. Patrick’s eyes flicked up to the mop of curls and he reached out to run gentle fingers through the coarse strands. Pete realized he was holding his breath… but then he was letting it out in a sigh as Patrick’s fingers soothed against his scalp and a smile played on his lips.

 

“I like it, so. It suits you.” His fingers dipped down to linger for a moment against Pete’s cheek before he seemed to catch himself, stepping away with a twitch. “I’ll just take a turn then,” he said as he grabbed his mug of cocoa and clothes from his bag before disappearing behind the door, but Pete couldn’t stop smiling at the way Patrick’s eyes had been soft when he looked at him. Nicole had hated when he let his hair curl.

 

Pushing the thoughts of the past away, he flopped to his stomach and pulled the chain of the bedside lamp before pulling his homework from his bag — it _was_ reading week after all. May as well try to be a halfway decent student. Flipping open the book to where he had slipped the pink post-it note that Patrick had left on his pillow as a marker he tried again to see the world through John Banville’s eyes.

 

_“_ _The rusted hulk of the freighter that had run aground at the far end of the bay longer ago than any of us could remember must have thought it was being granted a relaunch. I would not swim again, after that day. The seabirds mewled and swooped, unnerved, it seemed, by the spectacle of that vast bowl of water bulging like a blister, lead-blue and malignantly agleam. They looked unnaturally white, that day, those birds. The waves were depositing a fringe of soiled yellow foam along the waterline. No sail marred the high horizon. I would not swim, no, not ever again...”_

 

He sighed, taking another sip of the cocoa and tried to imagine it. He hadn’t seen much of Galway Bay but he couldn’t imagine the ocean being _pale_ … it was the ocean. It had a temper, its moods changed as quickly as the tide…

 

“Not going to read much with your eyes closed, now.” Patrick’s voice interrupted his musings and he blinked open to him sitting on the edge of the bed, setting down his mug next to Pete’s. “What are you reading, then?” Wordlessly Pete handed the book over, shutting it and flopping to his back as Patrick’s brows lifted as he considered the cover. “Banville, eh? That’s not the typical book to pull of the shelf for most folk. Have you read his others?”

 

“Nope.” Pete ran a hand through his hair as he scratched absently at the tattoo between his hip bones. “It’s what we were assigned for the week and I just can’t seem to get past the first page.” Patrick hummed and murmured an absent _why_ as he scanned the back cover, and Pete shrugged. “I don’t know. He just… there’s no life to the words. It’s like reading a math textbook, except it’s a story and I’m supposed to care about it.”

 

“Sure so, not many read algebra for fun.” Patrick settled the book next to them and looked down at his hands, pursing his lips before fluffing at his damp hair. “Do you — are you tired? If you want to read more I can sleep in the other — ”

 

“Not on your life.” Pete pushed the book off the bed so it tumbled to the floor in a flurry of rustled pages and scooted back, patting the empty space on the bed expectantly. Smiling with just a hint of nerves visible in the set of his shoulders Patrick laid down carefully next to him, turning to his side and pulling the pillow more firmly under his head. He looked at Pete expectantly, and for a moment Pete felt hurt and just a bit miffed--hadn’t he done enough? Why did he always have to make the first move? But then he remembered the hesitation in Patrick’s touch when he had pulled him close in the wee hours of the morning on his narrow university bed, the shame in his eyes… and he realized this wasn’t Patrick playing hard to get, this wasn’t him making Pete work for it. This was him waiting to be allowed back without expectation, this was him acknowledging his mistake and trying to make it right without pushing Pete into anything. It made something warm bloom in his gut when he realized that for all that, Patrick was _still there_ … trying. Waiting.

 

God, he hadn’t felt _wanted_ in so long.

 

He reached out a gentle hand and stroked Patrick’s cheek, just like he’d done earlier. “How about I kiss you, and we go from there?” Hungry blue eyes met his own and he was engulfed in the overwhelming need to be _closer_ , to have those hands roam his skin and feel the warm ghosting of breath against his neck. So when Patrick nodded, Pete pulled him close and cupped his face tenderly as Patrick wrapped an arm around his waist and tugged him flush against him. He couldn’t help the way he sighed into Patrick’s mouth as their lips met, as gentle circles were rubbed into the skin of his lower back and Patrick hooked an ankle around his to tangle their legs. He slid his hands down Patrick’s chest to hook under the hem of his shirt, breaking away just long enough to pull it over his head before diving in for more.

 

A small eternity later that he was _happy_ to let last much longer, Patrick broke away from his lips to press soft, gentle kisses to his neck that half tickled and half lit him on fire as he murmured, “I think, last time we were in this position, you gave me an excellent bit of head.” Patrick caught his lips again, kissing him deep before pulling back to smile as he played his fingers along the waistband of Pete’s briefs, “Think you’d let me return the favor?”

 

“There’s like… _no universe_ where I say no to that.” Pete hissed as Patrick’s fingers dipped down to brush softly against his _very_ interested cock, dancing teasingly against the fabric as he nodded. To his surprise, Patrick didn’t smirk, didn’t accompany pulling his boxers down and off with a sassy comment tinged with biting sarcasm. Instead he just kissed his way down, all gentle hands and careful touches, and Pete felt like he was _floating_ with the peacefulness of it. He paused just as he came to Pete’s hips, and he couldn’t help the tiny whine of desire… but Patrick just looked back up at him with a smile, rubbing soft circles over the papery skin of his balls.

 

“I--I strongly thought about doing this in the jacks at the Ceilli.” He murmured, nosing at him and Pete was briefly reminded of a nuzzling cat, for some stupid reason, except it was the sexiest thing in the world instead. But his mind flashed back to the Ceilli, to Patrick’s hands against his hips as he showed him the steps, the twinkle in his eyes as they spun around each other. Patrick licked a long stripe up, sucking just the smooth head between his lips and swirling his tongue, and Pete’s breath stuttered, hips twitching under the press of his hands.

 

“Why didn’t you?” He couldn’t help but gasp out, half-imagining Patrick on his knees in a tiny bathroom and wondering if he’d have been able to keep quiet. Probably not.

 

Pale shoulders rolled in a lazy shrug as he swallowed him down, the tip of his cock now nudging the back of Patrick’s throat and he felt like _dying_. But then he was bobbing his head back up, all suction before pulling off to bite his lip and Pete decided he could wait on the answer. But Patrick just looked at him, eyes a bit hooded but filled with an odd hesitancy.

 

“I...you deserved more.” He shrugged again with a bashful smile, thumbs rubbing gentle circles in the hollows of Pete’s hip bones before returning to his task, the tempo of his movements making Pete sure that there would be no more conversation… And while he wanted to hear more, while he wanted to pull him off and ask what he meant, why he had acted the way he had. But the need for answers was quickly overwhelmed by the frankly _perfect_ blowjob he was being given and the last thing he thought with any coherence was that he’d ask more _later_.

 

“Fuck ‘Trick, you — _god._ You’re so fuckin’ good at that, _fuck —_ ” He wanted to reach down and bury his hands in Patrick’s hair, to match the motions of his mouth with his hips but something told him that might not be wanted, might not be welcome. Instead he reached up, taking hold of the headboard and gripped like he was going to be knocked off the bed by a wave.

 

A groan from the vicinity of his groin made him look down, to see Patrick’s eyes riveted to where his hands were locked against the slats, his pupils blown and hungry. _Nobody should look that pretty with a mouth full of cock_ , he thought, weirdly proud of himself for stringing the words together as Patrick’s tongue slid against him, plush lips glistening and his hair falling just a bit into his eyes. He was a picture of _hot_ and Pete could feel the end nearing. It was building in his gut—sparkling and shot through with words he knew he was probably babbling but couldn’t hold back.

 

Patrick took him deep one final time and pressed a finger just against his entrance—not breaching his body but merely _suggesting_ it, reminding him of what had been and what he hoped _might be_ soon—and he was panicking, trying to tell him that this was it, to pull off, that it was fine he didn’t mind… But he wasn’t in time and before he could push the air from his lungs and into words he was coming, spilling over into Patrick’s mouth as he shook and cried out his name. Guilt crashed through him as the tide of it began to ebb back and he pried his eyes open, half afraid Patrick would be scowling at him as he blew come out of his nose…

 

But instead, he was climbing up his body with a crooked smile, eyes bright as he licked his lips just before crashing them against Pete’s. He could feel the frantic motion of Patrick’s hand on his own cock and his brain sparked and fizzled that he should help, he should do _something_ besides lay there and writhe out the wending end of his orgasm… But his arms refused to move from above his head where they had flopped boneless to the pillow, his body was a pile of rubble, of ruin. So, he did the best thing he could — he kissed Patrick back hard, licking the taste of himself out of his mouth. The thought made another shiver run through him and he twitched against Patrick’s hand, brushing his spent cock accidentally against the motion and he gasped, back arching. That seemed to unlock something in Patrick — his hips stuttered, hand trembling on his cock as he pressed their foreheads together, mouth brushing Pete’s as he cried out, slicking their stomach as he stroked himself through it.

 

Pete’s arms decided to return to service in that moment and he gave in to his earlier desire to bury his hands in Patrick’s hair, to skim along his back and hold him through it. Patrick trembled, mumbling incoherent things against his neck as he shivered and tumbled to the bed, half on top of Pete and it felt _perfect_. Patrick’s hand came up to curl around the back of his neck — possessive and yet it made him feel safe and contained as his thumb stroked the underside of his jawline and they simply laid there for a long moment — breath of returning and bodies cooling.

 

Pete hummed as Patrick fumbled for his shirt, to wipe them both clean, and then he remembered — heart starting to hammer in his chest. “I didn’t — I’m sorry, I should have warned you I was gonna — ”

 

“Shhhh.” Patrick tossed the shirt off the bed and pulled him close, grabbing the quilt folded at the end of the bed with his foot and spreading it over them both. He ran soothing fingers through his curls and pressed a deep, calm kiss to his lips. It floated over him, slicking Pete on the inside like honey and he couldn’t help but melt just a bit more, to fall just a bit deeper under the spell of the way Patrick’s hands felt. When they finally broke away for air, Patrick tucked his head against his chest and sighed. “You taste delicious.”

 

The only thing he could thing to do was hum in response and hope Patrick heard the way his heart was beating out a restless tattoo of _you’re perfect_ against his chest as sleep tugged them under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, it seems as though things may be taking a turn in the right direction but can they keep it up?
> 
> You can chat to us on Tumblr [Flames](https://a-smile-like-that.tumblr.com/) is here and [Snitches](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers) (that's me!) is here!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back dudes! Hey, we’re averaging a chapter a month - that’s not bad. Is everyone on summer vacation yet? Having fun? Have some tales from Galway to brighten up your day :)

The comforting weight of the slightly-musty quilt sheathed him in a warmth that Pete decided he was happy to stay beneath forever. Especially when he felt the press of arms around his waist and the solid presence of a body behind his own. _Patrick_ , he thought, and wondered if he could turn around to nuzzle closer without waking him. It seemed worth it, as the dim grey light of the pre-dawn hours filtering through the lace curtains heralded to his fuzzy eyes that it was still early. So he rucked his hips around, turning under leaden arms so he could bury himself into Patrick’s chest, curls brushing the hollow under his chin. Holding his breath, he waited for the grumble of _lie still, arsehole_ … but it didn’t come. Patrick just huffed in his sleep and tucked his chin down snug against him, arms tightening around his waist, and he breathed out in bliss. His last thought before drifting back to sleep was the way Patrick’s eyes had softened when he kissed him, the gentle light there…

 

Sunlight was actually shining through the curtains when he woke again, still nestled into Patrick who had flopped to his back at some point. He shifted a bit so his head was more fully in the hollow of his shoulder and sighed in happiness as he stretched just a bit, flexing his toes and knees.

 

“Wriggling like an eel, I swear…” Patrick’s voice rasped from above him and he froze, wondering if that was meant to be endearing or frustrated. But the way he tightened his arm around Pete’s waist a heartbeat later reassured him it was the former emotion and he felt it safe to take a chance. Lifting his head, he pressed a kiss to Patrick’s neck, and then another to his jaw, reveling in the softness under his lips.

 

“Eel’s really good, you know. One of my favorite kinds of sushi.”

 

“Hmmm… sure so, though the ones with the fried shrimp are better.” Patrick sounded very much like he was still mostly asleep, and Pete decided he really liked it — all muzzy and soft. Nearly complacent, had he not been disagreeing from the start, and he thought it was just as nice as the fiery, snarky boy he was halfway in love with. “Sleep well, did you?”

 

“Perfect, you?” Pete pushed up to his elbows as Patrick hummed an affirmative, already feeling the energy of a new day thrumming through him. “What do you want to do today? The sun’s out, we could — ”

 

“ _No_.” Patrick pulled his head back down, turning over to his side and pulling Pete in to his chest like he could silence him. “No leaping to activities just yet. Cottage rules — have to stay in bed for at least a bit and wake up.” Deciding that sounded like a totally acceptable plan, Pete contented himself by further contemplating Patrick’s chest, tracing gentle patterns across it with his fingertips. He was _so pale_ , sprinkled with a fine dusting of light blonde hair. He felt Patrick’s sigh of contentment, and a few moments later a careful hand was weaving through his hair, nails lightly massaging his scalp and he couldn’t help but nearly purr in contentment. “Nice, isn’t it?”   


He _mmmhmmm’d_ as he nestled into Patrick’s chest, wrapping his arm around his waist and thought that he _liked_ this. It had been such a marathon of flirtatious scheming and hopefully-not-too-desperate hope to get this far that he felt like he hadn’t taken a breath, that he’d never really gotten to truly relax into Patrick’s arms until the night before on the couch in the tavern. But that didn’t hold a candle to this — arms around him wrapped in a quilt and hazy morning light that made him feel like for the first time in a long time he didn’t need to keep vibrating, that he could actually release the desperate motion that seemed the only way to keep from rattling out of his skin.

 

They stayed there for a while… just drifting in the ease of morning drowsiness and warmth, Patrick’s hand migrating from his hair to his neck. It settled against the crook of his collarbone, fingertips brushing his spine gently as his thumb stroked gentle motions under his jaw. Pete felt the gentle press of lips against the crown of his head and felt like he was _floating_.  

 

But then Patrick was stretching, arching his back and letting out a yawn-like string of muttered curses in Gaelic. Pete took that as a sign that such a thing as _sitting up_ might be acceptable, so he pushed up to kneel over him. “Ready to seize the day?”

 

“Don’t know who you’ll be _seizing_ in Galway, but let’s give it a shot.” He gave him a crooked grin that made something under Pete’s heart give a sloppy flip-flop before both their stomachs took the opportunity to growl. Patrick snorted and shook his head as he pushed to sit up, throwing his feet over the side of the bed. Pete rolled to his stomach, pushing up and stretching the kinks out of his back and looked over to see Patrick frowning at the window.

 

“What?”

 

Chagrined blue eyes met his before flickering away to inspect the quilt. “I just realized we only got the beer on the way home… should have grabbed something for breakfast but I didn’t think of it.”

 

“Too excited to get me naked?” Pete couldn’t help but tease, crawling over to wrap his arms around him and press himself to Patrick’s back.

 

“Maybe.” There was a sly smile on Patrick’s lips that didn’t hold the normal sass, but instead seemed tinged with a shyness — no that wasn’t the right word. Uncertainty, perhaps… but then his contemplation of adjectives was lost as Patrick brought a hand up to cup his cheek, pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth. He couldn't help but sigh into it, melting just a bit but then Patrick pulled back, light dancing in his eyes. “C’mon, let’s go and get a proper breakfast, otherwise we won’t get you to see the bay at this rate.” Pete decided he wouldn’t be wholly disappointed if all he ever saw of Galway was Patrick’s bare body and the wooden beams of the roof above the bed but Patrick seemed to not find this an acceptable amount of sightseeing for the _long drive_.

 

Fifteen minutes later Patrick was yelling at him from the bottom of the stairs to hurry up, that his stomach was nearly eating his backbone as Pete finished straightening his hair. He had ringed his eyes while the iron heated up, and he decided as he looked at himself in the mirror that he’d do for a day of sightseeing with a gorgeous native. “Coming!” He yelled as he threw the iron in his bag at the foot of the bed and skidded to the staircase. Patrick was looking at him strangely, and he wondered if he’d grown a third eye and forgotten to put eyeliner on it in the last ten seconds. “What?”

 

“Is that all you’re wearing, so?” A sudden flush of insecurity rushed through him and he looked down — _Nirvana_ tee, grey hoodie, black skinny jeans, converse — what was wrong? His discomfort must have shown on his face, because Patrick shook his head and held his hands up in apology. “No, no — not like that. You look grand, but it’s _windy_ , Galway is a _Bay_ after all. Didn’t you bring a coat?”

 

Pete now noticed Patrick’s heavy wool coat--the same one he had been wearing on that misty night they had first met, and shook his head. “Uh... it wasn’t that cold back in Dublin, so I thought…” He trailed off, wondering with a mix of panic and excitement that maybe this would mean they would have to stay inside the whole time. But Patrick just shook his head with a roll of his eyes and a smirking smile.

 

“Well… let’s see what we can find you to rectify this, shall we then?” He gestured Pete forward, who followed him to a coat closet that had been hidden around the corner. Patrick started ruffling through it, pushing aside the sizable number puffy coats and anoraks that looked to only fit someone under the age of five. He pulled two free and held them out like the world’s most sarcastic salesman. “Well, looks like you get the option of Nana’s trenchcoat or mam’s old puffer.” Pete considered the options — a subdued burgundy plaid trench coat with navy lapels, or a sky blue down jacket with a hint of floral purple just cresting on the pockets.

 

“I mean… Nana’s got a hell of a style, but I think I’ll go for the tamer option.” He took the puffer and gave Patrick a smile. “She won’t mind?”

 

“She hates that coat, that’s why it’s here.” Patrick let out a chuckle as he slid it on, zipping it up halfway, and shut the coat closet door before taking Pete’s hand firmly. “I rescind my previous statement. You may well end up doing a fair amount of _seizing_ now.”

 

They locked the cottage up and walked down the path towards the city proper and Pete was increasingly glad of the jacket — purple floral accents or not. The wind was brisk with a hint of fog, and the sun shone but weakly through the grey sky. Patrick pointed things out as they went — that house had been where his best friend in Galway had lived, they’d tried to ride a wagon down that hill and his brother had broken his arm. By the time they reached the cafe — confusingly named Ard Bia, which Pete’s dyslexia turned to Aria Bird for a moment — he felt like he’d gotten a treasured glimpse into a younger Patrick’s life.

 

A call of welcome sounded from the dining room, and Patrick waved around the young hostess and called back something full of vowels in strange places. A cherry-cheeked matron hustled out and wrapped Patrick in a hug as she chattered at him in laughing Gaelic. He smiled, answering back and gesturing at Pete in what must have been an introduction, because he soon found himself wrapped in a hug scented with rosemary and rye before they were bustled to a table by the window. She said something that sounded like a question as he sat, and in the sudden silence he realized it had been directed at him. “Uhhh….”

 

“She asked if you wanted sugar and cream for your coffee.” Patrick smiled at him, and he nodded.

 

“Oh, yeah, please.” Patrick translated and she bustled off, not before patting them both on the cheek and he looked at Patrick with raised eyebrows. “I swear you know _everyone_ in this entire country.”

 

“Not _everyone_ , but I’ve known Iona since I was tiny.” He shrugged, smiling as their coffee was set down. They conversed for a few more moments before Patrick paused and looked at Pete. “How hungry are you? We could share a breakfast or get you your own.”

 

“I’m _hungry_.” He answered, wondering what he would end up with as Patrick nodded and finished ordering, but deciding he didn’t care. Patrick’s taste in food had been excellent thus far, no reason to start doubting now. Finally, blessedly, they were left alone to sip their coffee in peace. Well, relative peace — Patrick made a noise of shock as he watched Pete mix cream and sugar into his coffee.

 

“Christ, there’s no way you can taste the coffee at that rate!” Pete stuck his tongue out before taking a long sip.

 

“I like my coffee like my men — pale and sweet.” Patrick harrumphed with a grudging smile, taking a sip before setting his elbows on the table and leaning forward.

 

“So where do you want to go? Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?”

 

Pete shrugged. “I mean… I guess I’d better see Galway Bay, right? But beyond that… I trust you. Besides, you know everyone so I assume that means you know everywhere to see, too?”

 

“I told you, I don’t know _everyone_ — ” Patrick’s protestation was cut off as Iona set their plates down with a smattering of Gaelic and laughter before bustling off, shouting back at someone who was bellowing from the kitchen. Pete’s gaze was arrested by the plate in front of him, and he could feel his eyebrows rising as he considered the plate in front of him; it was brimming with food in a quantity he found astounding. Bacon, an over-medium egg, two sausages the size of fat thumbs, garden tomatoes that had been cut in half and cooked until tender, two slices of toast that looked familiar and two that did _not_ , a pile of _baked beans_ of all things and….

 

“What in the world is _this?!”_ He asked, prodding at what looked like two perfectly circular charcoal briquettes.

 

Patrick looked up from where he was tucking into his meal, a forkful of egg and beans halfway to his mouth, and smiled. “It’s a full Irish. Figured we deserved a treat before a day of adventuring.”

 

“Okay, but this? What is _this_?” He pointed at the black circles, and Patrick’s smile widened.

 

“It’s black pudding. Try it.” Pete looked at it dubiously, before gingerly reaching down to take a piece of the crumbly circle and put it in his mouth. He chewed, looking at Patrick as a slightly-oaty, meaty taste with an odd tang filled his mouth. He scrunched his nose just a bit as he swallowed it down, taking a drink of his coffee to wash the slightly-chalky taste left behind.

 

“Happy? Now, what is it? That’s not like any pudding I’ve ever had.” He noted, taking a bite of bacon to fill his mouth with something a bit more enjoyable.

 

Patrick swallowed down the mouthful of toast and cocked his head. “It’s called _pudding_ because it’s made of oats soaked with blood and mixed with pigs fat ‘till it’s thick enough to stuff.”

 

His stomach made a strange flopping inside his guts, and he stared down at the charred black objects with no desire for a second taste. “That’s disgusting. What the hell do you have against like _normal_ breakfast foods? Like pancakes or waffles?”

 

“Those wouldn't stick to your ribs on a day out herding the sheep.” Patrick objected, and Pete shrugged.

 

“Then you’ve never had Mama Jo’s. She makes them with candied pecans and cinnamon mixed in, and caramel sauce _and_ syrup on top.” His mouth watered at the memory as he took a bite of his toast, dipping it in the egg yolk.

 

“Who’s Mama Jo? That what you call your mother, then?”

 

“No.” Pete shook his head, and he could feel a fond smile flit across his lips. “She’s… she’s the reason I’m down in New Orleans instead of Chicago. She was one of my mom’s best friends, and they kinda had a falling out when my parents… well, we just didn’t get along. She took me in and raised me and she’s like… the family I didn’t know I didn’t have, until I had them.” He shrugged, bracing himself for the deluge of questions about the obvious omissions in his story, and wondered what Patrick would think of him if he knew the answers. But nothing came, no interrogation where he had to struggle to explain his family dynamic without sounding either like a gigantic asshole or a sob story. Instead, Patrick just smiled.

 

“She sounds grand… though I’m not sure about pancakes with _caramel.”_

 

They bantered for the rest of the meal — easy and light, trading stories of breakfasts past and both reminiscing for foods they loved as children. Iona refused to let them pay for their meal, so they were sent off with full stomachs and ears ringing with advice and backs sore from thunderous hugs. Pete reached out for Patrick’s hand, twining their fingers and tucking them both into the expansive pocket of the puffy jacket and sighed in contentment. “So where to?”

 

“Figured we might walk around the bay. It’s a sugh a pretty sight, with all the houses and whatnot.” He nodded in agreement, and they walked along the cobbled streets with Patrick pointing out some bit of trivia here, a recollection from childhood days there, a tidbit about something particularly Irish elsewhere. It was calming and easy… and Pete reflected between stories that perhaps that was the most surprising thing about Patrick — _this_ Patrick. Not the one who he’d had to chase within an inch of his life and had left him silent and heartbroken… no. This Patrick — the one that reached for his hand just as easily, who pulled him close and laughed at his stories with a twinkle and a sassy remark ready to go… _this_ Patrick was perfectly and achingly easy to be around.

 

After a while, they reached the dock and Pete tugged him down to a weathered bench that may have been blue at one point but was now faded to a soft gray. The wind blew off the water and made the featherlight strands dance around Patrick’s face and Pete couldn’t help but watch for a moment. But then he was caught — blue eyes flicking over to meet his own, and a grin was quirking lush pink lips.

 

“There’s plenty of better sights to be looking at from here than me, and that’s not modesty.”

 

Pete laughed at that, scooting closer to press a kiss to his cheek. “I think I can decide which pretty thing to look at for myself, _thank you_.” A snort of something derisive floated from under Patrick’s breath, but it didn’t sound to be in any language he knew, so he just shrugged and looked out at the grey waters. They sat in companionable silence, Patrick’s thumb scoring gentle patterns on the back of his hand and he contemplated the bay, trying to imagine a boat that would never sail again.

 

“You said you had an epiphany, or something like that that made you want to go back to school?” Patrick’s voice cut easily into his thoughts — which had drifted away from literary analysis and into the realm of cussing out Banville’s book in his head. “Did you always want to study literature?”

 

“I’m not a lit major.” Pete stated as a filler, mind suddenly whirling with the aching flip-flop of doubt that seemed to be the constant echo in his life. Did he tell him the truth? Or stick to the carefully-crafted lie that held up well enough, rehearsed and delivered so many times over the last two years that now it _almost_ seemed like a truth? The lie would be easiest — after all, it had been hard enough to reel Patrick in, and he almost certainly would run away shouting to the rooftops that Pete was too much of a disaster to be bothered with if he knew. But… for all the logic in his mind, for all the self-preservation instincts that cautioned against it, he felt in his bones that maybe, _just maybe,_  Patrick could handle the truth. Besides — what was the worst that could happen? Get marooned a _“long”_ way from home? There were worse fates. “I — I’m studying writing. It’s — I, I…” He trailed off, trying to find the words, and then Patrick was turning on the bench to face him.

 

“I didn't mean to pry, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, so. We can talk about something — ”

  
“No, it’s okay.” Pete shook his head, sneaking a look at Patrick from where he had been resolutely staring at the horizon. “I--” He pursed his lips and let out a breath. “I want to tell you, I feel like.... you’re worth the chance. If you want to hear it, of course. It’s not really — ”

 

“Of course I want to.” Patrick’s smile was gentle and easy and he wanted to cry with gratitude as he sat back on the bench, eyes focused on his own patch of horizon giving Pete the space to think. He just kept rubbing gentle circles on his palm, tucked in Pete’s pocket.

 

Blowing out a breath as he gathered his thoughts, he decided that it was best to just go for it. “I — I tried to kill myself. That’s ultimately why I came back to school, why I changed my life because I almost… didn’t have the chance.” He bit his lip and realized after a moment that he had actually screwed his eyes shut, like he was bracing for a blow. While he doubted Patrick would express his distaste physically, his heart was still hammering in his chest as he opened his eyes and looked at his companion, bracing for the worst.

 

Patrick was looking at him with wide eyes and brows knitted together in… it wasn’t judgement. It was something closer to shock, he realized, and wondered if he would say something before walking away. His heart leapt to his throat as Patrick pulled his hand from Pete’s, leaving it empty in his pocket and he could feel pleas for him to stay starting to bubble up from his chest, beating against his bitten lip like a storm.

 

But then Patrick was throwing his arm around his shoulders, pulling him close and tucking him into his side like he was trying to shield him from a strong wind. Pete felt lips press to the crown of his head and pushed away the inexplicable stinging in his eyes as Patrick murmured against his hair, “I’m glad you’re still here.”

 

“Me too.” He murmured back and closed his eyes against the memories that whirled through his brain like sharp-edged butterflies. Patrick shifted a bit, settling back on the bench but keeping him tucked close, and his hand came down to stroke gently against the back of his neck.

 

“I’m sorry for asking the bloody worst question possible like a feckin’ twat.” He huffed out and Pete shook his head, tipping it up so he could look at Patrick.

 

“No, it’s okay. I — I don’t really tell people but I wanted to… I wanted you to know. It seemed fair.”

 

“What’s fairness got to do with it, so?” Patrick sounded a bit put-out, and he tripped a bit over his tongue to explain, sitting back so he could alternate between examining the hem of the coat and shooting glances to meet stormy blue eyes.

 

“I just…” He waved his hand, like the motion of his wrist could explain it all. “It wasn’t like… nothing  terrible happened, it wasn’t one thing that made me feel like that was the best thing to do? But I — I’ve had bipolar since, well, since I can remember really. Plowed through nearly every drug in high school to try to get stable and I thought it was…” He twisted the dangling braid that looped off the zipper between his fingers. “I don’t know you can ever really _cure_ it. But I thought I was okay, and then it just… it was like a papercut, you know? You get one and it’s annoying, but if you got a hundred all in the same place… you’d like bleed out or lose a leg or something. I just hadn’t realized how hard it had gotten, how far down I’d gone until I realized that I couldn’t see the sun anymore, that the bottom was still way down there and I had nowhere to go but keep falling.” He could see the questions in Patrick’s eyes, the way his lips twitched and his brow furrowed, but he seemed to settle on one as he reached out and took Pete’s hand.

 

“Do you still feel like that?”

 

“No.” Pete shook his head violently, like the motion could dispel the remnants of the darkness. “I — you try something like that and suddenly everyone is _very_ serious about you not ever doing it again. I did all kinds of shit but… this one doctor asked me what my purpose was. I tried to spit back the normal stuff but he didn’t want that. He mean like… what my _life_ was all about. I realized that I didn’t really know and — ” He waved his hand to encompass the bay. “ — This is where I ended up. I realized that I wanted to be able to tell people they weren’t alone. That there was someone else that knew what it felt like.”

 

Patrick gave him a smile, thumb back to tracing patterns on the back of his hand as they faced each other on the bench. Secrets hung between them like mist and Pete felt lighter for it, hope starting to bloom cautious and fragile in his chest. “Thank you for telling me, I imagine it couldn’t’ve been easy.” He pulled the hand he held to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it like he was reassuring himself that Pete was still there. “I won’t lie and tell you I can put myself in your shoes but… I’m just glad you’re here now.”

 

It felt like a breath released when Pete let a cautious smile tug at the corners of his mouth as he met Patrick’s gaze, “So, what about you?”

 

Patrick blinked at him, “What about me?”

 

“Well, I know about Sam,” Patrick flinched a little, “but I don’t think that’s the full story, is it? There’s more to it and like, I totally get it if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand that, but — and it’s a big but and entirely on you — if you _did_ want to talk about it, I’m a pretty good listener.”

 

Patrick’s attention remained firmly on the bay, watching the way the fishing boats bobbed with the waves. Fingers twitched and breath held, Pete traced each line of Patrick’s profile, the way his nose swept, how the line of his jaw fitted to the curve of his chin, the chill-nipped pink of his ear lobe. Patrick sighed and bit gently at his lower lip, squeezing Pete’s fingers as he spoke, voice quiet and soft.

 

“It’s nothing like as awful as what you went through,” he began, visibly embarrassed as he shifted on the bench. It wasn’t a competition, there would be no medals handed out for saddest backstory, lip bitten tight, he waited, fingertip tracing the callous on Patrick’s thumb. “My mam and dad divorced when I was ten. Mam took it pretty badly and Liam was already off at university so I felt, I don’t know, I suppose I felt responsible for everyone. Don’t get me wrong, she never would’ve… she’s a _good_ mother but we’re still Catholic and this is still Ireland and she just… I don’t think she ever planned on being divorced.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Pete said, and he was, honestly and genuinely sorry. “That must have been tough.”

 

“I think I just thought what was the point, you get me?” he shrugged at his shoes. “Why bother getting close to someone when they can just fuck off like that? So, I slept around, didn’t make anyone any promises and generally behaved like a prize feckin’ arsehole until I — until I met Sam. And you know how that ended so I went right back to being an arsehole and then…”

 

He trailed off, seaglass gaze flicking sharply to Pete. Heart hammering, bruising his ribs from within until he was sure there’d be a tachograph of his pulse burnt in purples and greens across his skin, Pete held his eyes and whispered, “And then?”

 

Patrick smiled, slow and lazy, stirring at the corners of his lips as he shifted on the bench. He huffed; he’d said enough, that much was clear. That was fine, Pete’s patience was rivalled only by his tenacity.

 

“Come on, eejit. Let’s go and grab a coffee or something and warm up.”

 

~//~

 

“B'fhéidir uaineoil? Rud éigin mar sin,” Patrick muttered into the mouthpiece, hushed like a spy as he waited, bouncing on his toes a little, for Pete to emerge from the jacks.

 

“You’re feckin’ _awful_ at espionage,” David — son of Shane the pub landlord and Patrick’s closest friend in Galway — declared cheerfully around what sounded like a mouthful of crisps. “Don’t go changing your day job now, would you?”

 

Patrick was sorely tempted to remind David of the time he called Patrick, choked up and sniffling, because the girl he’d been banging’s da had come home early and chased him across the bay on horseback. But Patrick was a _good_ friend and, more importantly, he required a favour so he held his tongue and barrelled on.

 

“You got a better idea, shit for brains?” he grumbled, shifting quickly back into Gaelic as Pete appeared in the monstrous puffer coat. “Ach é a dhéanamh le do thoil. Caithfidh mé dul, slán.”

 

“Right you are, then,” David said. “My Gaelic’s shit, pal, I’ll just remind you of that but I think I got the gist. Condoms? Personal lubricant?” He rolled the r’s beautifully, underscored by the roar of the van he kept apparently just to terrorise innocent pedestrians of Galway. Patrick tucked a mental note into an internal pocket to punch David in the bollocks next time he saw him.

 

“Gabh síos ort fhéin,” Patrick snapped smartly, thumbing over the end call button just in time for Pete to raise a questioning eyebrow. “Sure so, all ready?”

 

“As I’ll ever be,” Pete’s smile lit the room, weak sunlight catching the sparkle of his canines. Patrick shuffled his feet and tried not to think about his late-90s crush on James Masters. Pete was _not_ going to throw him headfirst back into his vampire fetish. “That sounded like an intense conversation, something wrong?”

 

Patrick scraped a hand through his hair and resettled his cap with a grin, hand snaking into the back pocket of Pete’s jeans to frame a surreptitious squeeze of his arse through the denim, “Nothing at all. Come on then, let me dazzle you with the dizzying heights of Galway City! Careful now, is your breath sufficiently bated? Is your mind adequately prepared to be blown? Are you — ”

 

Breath and ridiculous stage play were stolen from his lungs and lips as Pete’s mouth closed softly over his, tongue rolling over Patrick’s as Pete cupped his face in both warm hands. Just a moment, half a heartbeat of honeyed warmth and Pete released him, stepping back all charming grin and copper-bright gaze. Before Patrick could adequately order his thoughts into a response — or question why his thoughts were remotely out of order from a sweet little burst of a kiss — Pete grabbed his hand and yanked him along the path as though he were the tour guide and Patrick was simply along for the ride.

 

Which, when Patrick really thought about it, didn’t seem like a half-bad analogy for their relationship so far.

 

“Slow down, gobshite,” Patrick huffed, chasing misted breath along the edge of the bay, the candy cane patchwork of fishermen’s cottages trying their best to shine in weak winter sunlight. “Galway’s been here for a thousand years, I think it’ll wait another minute or two for an impatient yank and the poor, beleaguered native he’s trying to murder with an enforced heart attack.”

 

Pete, because he was Pete, didn’t reply. He simply smiled, half at Patrick, half at the ocean stretching away from the bay, weight braced over the railing. The sun, ever the poet, chose that moment to heroically breach the sea fret, bathing the city golden for a spark of a moment. Each cast of winter light seemed to pick out a new, unexplored plane of Pete’s face, glittering copper along the crests of his cheekbones and deepening the sparkle of his eyes. Patrick liked him like this, liked him soft and quiet and contemplative as much as he liked him wall-bounced and bounding. Patrick, quite simply, liked Pete.

 

“You know,” Patrick began, easing his foot up onto the lowest bar and pressing in close to Pete’s side. “If you squint hard enough, you’ll see New York.”

 

Pete laughed, eyes closed and face tilted into the breeze, hair ruffled and nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath, “Could probably swim it. You know, if you needed to.”

 

“Sure so, no trouble at all,” Patrick traced the small of Pete’s back, under the coat, the hoodie and the shirt, fingertips skimming the notches of his spine. Unsaid words, impossible to frame, stung the back of his tongue, burnt his lips and palate. The tip of the tide, that was all it was, just an expanse of grey and blue that bled into the horizon. All he’d ever have to do was follow the line of the sky and he’d find Pete eventually. It was oddly comforting. “Barely even a bother.”

 

“God, I could live here,” Pete declared, arching back a breath into Patrick’s hand. “This is like — it’s exactly where I think a writer would live.”

 

“You didn’t even know it existed until two hours ago,” Patrick teased, thumb skating along the line of Pete’s belt.

 

“And I didn’t know _you_ existed until a month ago,” Pete countered, eyebrows raised. “Yet here we are…”

 

Patrick could think of no place he would rather be, “Come on then, Tyra. You’ll be wanting a photo op, I suppose.”

 

“You know who Tyra Banks is?”

 

Patrick sighed and yanked his phone from his pocket, flipping to the camera and pulling Pete under his arm. The viewfinder showed him the ocean stretching out behind them and he had the strangest sense of premonition that he’d spend a lot of time in the coming months looking at this picture and reminding himself that he could swim it… you know, if he _needed_ to.

 

“I’m Irish,” he muttered around the stretch of his grin for the flash of the camera. “Not feckin’ stupid.”

 

~//~

 

_I spent two hours putting that little lot together for you. If you don’t get a ride out of this pal it’s your doing not mine. I expect to be invited to the wedding. I’ve already picked out a hat._

 

Patrick was sure that the text message that pinged onto his phone from David was supposed to be reassuring. As Pete dicked around on the Wilde statue in William Street however, all Patrick could feel was the kind of hot, sweaty panic usually associated with maths exams and PE lessons. David was a gobshite, the worst of all the gobshites, and Patrick was half expecting to make his way back to the cottage to find a couple of Pot Noodles and a six pack of warm, Tesco value lager.

 

“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” Pete asked as they walked back towards the cottage. It was dark, encompassing and chilled as their shoes scuffed against the tarmac, kicking up pebbles that skittered away from them. “I’m starving, what’s for dinner?”

 

“It’s,” Patrick took a deep breath and gusted it out, cheeks blown, “a surprise.”

 

It certainly fecking would be.

 

Patrick unlocked the door cautiously, not entirely unconvinced that David wouldn’t have done something twatty like hook a confetti cannon to the door handle or something equally ludicrous. It seemed safe and he stepped inside, kicking off his shoes as Pete did the same and returning coats to the cupboard under the stairs. He proceeded with caution, Pete frowning at him in confusion as he peered around each door on his way to the kitchen.

 

There was a box.

 

Patrick approached it warily, convinced that at any moment something terrible would happen. Atop the box was a note that Patrick unfolded carefully and read through as Pete collapsed down onto the couch with a groan.

 

_Paddy_ — okay, he’d kill him for that, right off — _lamb as requested along with a delightful assortment of seasonal, local vegetables (that’s broccoli, parsnips, carrots and tatties to you and me mate, because we live in Ireland and fuck all else grows here in fucking FEBRUARY) along with any and all manner of fussy looking shit in glass jars. Ma told me what to get, blame her if you make a bags of it. There’s a cheesecake in the fridge and I hung you a clean shirt in the bathroom. I even ironed it. I think we can agree that we’re now even for the incident involving the Gardai and the cows. Have fun, twatbasket! D_

 

Inside the box was everything David promised, along with — somewhat disconcertingly — a selection of candles from plain white tapers to fat, pale church candles and, as threatened, a 12 pack of condoms.

 

“What’s in the box?” Pete called, peering over the back of the couch with interest.

 

“Oh, just had a friend grab some groceries for us,” Patrick waved a hand as though it didn’t matter. Rosemary lamb chops, he could do that, a recipe learned from watching his mammy and nana as a boy. “Lamb okay?”

 

“Sure,” Pete was on his feet in a moment, padding to the kitchen worktop in socks and rummaging through a drawer. “I can’t cook for shit, but tell me what to chop.”

 

They worked companionably, slicing and chopping and arguing over the playlist on Patrick’s iPod. At some point, Pete slipped away for a shower and returned, flushed and pink and sporting another band shirt. Patrick smiled, heart tripping in his chest as he fumbled through his wallet and held out a twenty euro note, “D’you think you remember your way to the shop, now? We could do with a bottle of red to go with the lamb.”

 

Pete narrowed his eyes and flicked a glance between Patrick and the close to full bottle of red on the counter behind him, “Sure, that’s just swill for cooking. Get something nice while I finish off in here. Quickly now, it’ll be done in twenty minutes.”

 

“Kay…” Pete snatched at Patrick’s coat this time — would the wool smell of him, he wondered, his cologne caught amongst the fibres at the collar to dance demented in Patrick’s nose each and every time he wore it? He resolved to make sure he wore the coat a lot more often, just to be on the safe side. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, avenge my death.”

 

Patrick laughed for only as long as it took Pete to close the door. He rocketed to the bathroom to take the fastest shower he’d ever taken in his life, sparing two precious minutes trimming the copper curls at the base of his cock with his nana’s nail scissors. His apology to her was internal but heartfelt.  He found the shirt hung on the back of the door as promised and shrugged it on, scampering back to the kitchen to rummage through cupboards for non-existent candle sticks. He improvised with empty jam jars and, he had to admit, the finished effect with the lights dimmed was quite romantic.

 

He was in the process of burning himself on the casserole dish, cursing his stupidity in not turning a fucking light back on, when he heard the front door slam, “Honey! I’m ho — oh!”

 

“Um… susprise?” Patrick offered softly, face roughly the same temperature as the ninth circle of hell, which seemed appropriate as it felt as though that’s where he’d been living for the past ten minutes.

 

“You did this?” Patrick wished Pete didn’t sound quite so disbelieving; as though he thought Patrick were incapable of romantic notions or that he himself didn’t deserve them, either way it wasn’t exactly the vibe he was going for. He nodded in silence, the soft trickle of jazz music from his tiny docking station wafting between them. “I — wow. Oh, and you dressed up! I…” Pete trailed off and flushed pink, toying with the bottle of cabernet in his hands, “I don’t have anything nice to wear.”

 

Pete stared at the floor, dressed in Patrick’s coat, his skinny jeans and Orgy shirt revealed by the unbuttoned plackets. There was not enough air in the room to frame any appropriate reassurances as Patrick crossed to join him, taking his face in both hands and drawing him down for a kiss.

 

“You look feckin’ gorgeous,” he whispered, breath warm and flavoured with the taste of Pete’s lips. “You _always_ look feckin’ gorgeous and if I hadn’t just dedicated an hour of my life to doing everything I can to impress you with my culinary skills, I’d take you to the bedroom and spend twice as long proving it to you. I think” Pete lips twitched, haunted by the promise of a smile as he muttered _oy tink_ , Patrick pressed on with a theatrical roll of his eyes, “I think you’re amazing, you know? So, if you wouldn’t mind awfully, just sit down right there and tell me those lamb chops are the best you’ve ever tasted. For the sake of my ego, if nothing else.”

 

Patrick, it turned out, with his gift of the gab and his ability to talk the hind leg off a donkey, was actually spectacularly bad at saying what he meant. But the _I think I might be falling in love with you and that fucking terrifies me_ that skittered at the edges of a heart closed off from possibilities seemed far more frightening than small talk about the food. Pete sat at the table, something far-off and dreamy caught in his gaze as he propped his chin on his hand and watched Patrick dish up.

 

“Thank you,” he said, barely a ghost of breath as Patrick raised his eyebrows in question, setting the plates down and sliding into his own seat. “Not just for dinner, but, you know, thank you for that, too. For — for not freaking out earlier. And for telling me about your family. That — it really means a lot. Most people, they… they think I’m cute and they keep me around for that but they don’t want to deal with the dark parts, you know? I have a mental illness and that’s not always pretty and I guess… I guess I’d understand if you wanted to reassess.”

 

Patrick considered his answer as he poured them both a glass of wine, his contemplation spilling over into the first sharp, rich burst of ruby against his tongue, “I like you,” he tried eventually, “and I don’t like you any less for who you are.”

 

Pete smiled, hesitant and threaded with hope, as he brought their glasses together gently.

 

“What are we toasting?” Patrick asked, glass placed down as Pete did the same and took his first forkful of lamb. He watched him chew, watched his eyes roll back a little and the happy little sigh that huffed over his lips, chased by the sweep of his tongue as he blinked at Patrick with a blinding grin.

 

“New beginnings,” he declared. “And the best fucking lamb chops in Ireland.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments or kudos are lovely!
> 
> You can chat to us on Tumblr [Flames](https://a-smile-like-that.tumblr.com/) is here and [Snitches](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sn1tchesandtalkers) (that's me!) is here!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends!!! Let me sincerely apologize--Snitches wrote her bit like FOREVER ago and I've been so busy I couldn't get the rest of it done until now. Thank you so much for waiting patiently, (and sometimes not so patiently--please stop anon messaging Snitches! This delay was all my fault!!) but we really hope that it satisfies for the long wait. It is...highly plot-driven quality writing we strive to provide to you...nevermind the condom count ;) Thank you for sticking with us, and on with the Idiots in Love!

 

Patrick was a-wandering to langered. Dangerously close to merry. Not rat-arsed, not by a long shot, but Patrick was ossified enough that he would struggle to provide the exact location of his trousers other than to say that they were no longer on his legs.

 

Instead, he had a wriggling, giggling, biting-kisses-to-sensitive-places lapful of Pete. He was confident that this was a definite improvement on his jeans.

 

They’d polished off the wine — both bottles — and the last of the beers lingering in the fridge as they lounged on the couch and explored a vinyl collection donated by various relatives over the years. As the fire in the grate burned lower, mocking one another’s musical taste gave way to mouths roaming wetmessydirty.

 

And, apparently, Patrick losing his jeans.

 

“Fuck, I want to suck your cock,” Pete whined against his ear. Pete’s shirt was long since gone, lost to the back of the couch, warm, gold skin bathed orange in flickering firelight under the pale of Patrick’s fingers as he tweaked gently at the stiff, dark peak of a nipple. “Jesus fuck, Trick…”

 

Patrick laughed slow, slurred, “I _could_ fuck you on the couch —”

 

“Mm, yeah, do _that_.”

 

“Aw sure, look it,” Patrick rolled his head back against the couch cushions, idly swatting at the hand twitching at the band of his underwear, “let me finish, now. I _could_ fuck you on the couch, or — _or_ ,” and he made the word last at least half a dozen sticky syllables, “I could take you upstairs, get you all laid out on that bed for me and fuck you til you scream.”

 

The grin pinching dirty at the corners of Pete’s thick, soft mouth smeared just a little wider. He toyed with the stiff length of Patrick’s cock through his shorts, pulling the cotton taut to the obscene throb of it. The damp patch of precome darkened over the crown of his cock. “What makes you think I’m a screamer?”

 

“You heard what Niamh said,” he paused to drag Pete down, to lick the taste of him from the ridged-hard palate of his mouth until his tongue burnt with it, “and I think you were holding back on me in the flat. There’s no one here to overhear you, so, don’t tell me that doesn’t turn you on a bit…”

 

“So…” Pete drew it out, leaning back and glowing copper in the light of the embers. Amber and gold fingered through shadows pooling at the hollows of his collarbone, each muscle across the shaved-smooth stretch of his stomach and chest tautly defined. Patrick was under no illusion whatsoever. Pete knew he was a pretty little son of a bitch. “Does this mean I _don’t_ get to suck your cock, or…?”

 

“Get upstairs,” the words tasted hot, scorching the tip of Patrick’s tongue, “and we’ll both find out, won’t we?”

 

It was hard, it transpired, to make it up the narrow twist of the stairs without parting their mouths. Dangerous, Patrick had to concede, when each tread tried valiantly to send them crashing to the floor, snatching at one another through missteps and grunting groans as each jolt rode the lust-stiff length of their cocks together. The mystery of spontaneous combustion could possibly be explained at least in part by the fuck-flushed grind of hard cocks in dark places.

 

But, if the stumble-trip of socks on slippery-shine hardwood meant he had an excuse to slide his hand down the back of Pete’s jeans, to grope greedy at the firm curve of the arse he found there, well, he’d risk concussion with a grin.

 

“Fuck, can’t wait to get you all laid out for me,” he whispered, breath beading like sweat against the curve of Pete’s throat as he crowded him back towards the bedroom door. “Been thinking about it all fuckin’ day, so, about pinning you down, getting my mouth all over you… Every fuckin’ inch, Pete, swear to God, every _inch_ , I — _fuck_ ,” the last word was howled, the thud of his skull to the door percussive as Pete slid, slipped, his way down Patrick’s body, yanking down his shorts and swallowing his cock with a groan, “ _Jesus_ …”

 

Was it wrong to forget that this was supposed to be about Pete? To tangle his fingers in the slick sweep of scene-straight bangs and lose himself in the ecstatic heat of Pete’s mouthlipstongue?

 

Pete looked up, eyes close to glowing in the darkness and pulled off just long enough to murmur, “Fuck, I love your cock.” Patrick decided that was probably reason enough to let him carry on.

 

The handle was slippery under the sweat-slick of his palm, three attempts until it gave instead of sliding sticky against his skin. “That’s good, I — fuck, you’re fuckin’ _incredible_ at that, you little fuckin’ shit…”

 

Afterward, Patrick would swear he didn’t know which he became aware of first; the spill of stutter-gold candle flame across the dark stretch of the hallway, or the sunset-slow spread of confusion that leached across Pete’s face. The cock stretching his mouth white at the corners really gave the whole thing a certain _je nais se quois_ and, recalling that this was the moment in every horror film that led to an axe between the shoulder blades, Patrick eased his throbbing dick free from Pete’s mouth and turned around.

 

The bedroom was, undeniably, not in the state they’d left it. Patrick recalled a damp towel left at the foot of the bed, his rucksack half-unpacked on the unmade sheets and last night’s boxers abandoned on the rug.

 

“Oh,” said Patrick, faced with candles — _so many feckin’ candles_ — cluttering every surface in big, glass things he thought he may have heard his mammy refer to as hurricane lanterns. “Well…”

 

(He planned an imminent talk with David about fire safety but immediately moved it down his list of priorities when he noticed the fucking _rose petals_. They lay, mocking him in crimson repose, dashed artfully across  the pulled-smooth duvet and plush-plump pillows, a condom and bottle of lube placed as prominent centrepieces in a design Patrick didn’t want to acknowledge was a heart. Patrick was momentarily relieved it wasn’t a cock and balls, he swore to never let it be said that culchie men lacked romance.)

 

Pete was still on his knees, mouth still open, eyes as bright and round as copper pennies as he whispered, “Wow. You — you really went to a lot of effort.”

 

It burnt the tip of Patrick’s tongue to bark that he’d done no such fucking thing. But Pete tripped to his feet, sliding his arms around Patrick’s waist and kissing him, softslowdeep, tongue tracing patterns against the roof of his mouth. He pulled back, smile flirting shyly at the corners of his lips, the words all but stolen from Patrick’s. Inexplicably — and yet completely obviously now Patrick came to think about it — Pete was into it. Patrick pushed a hand through the fall of Pete’s bangs, felt the slick of product under his fingers  and nipped a sharp kiss to the ink at his collarbone. Maybe David wasn’t such an arsehole after all.

 

“Take this off,” Pete begged, tugging at the hem of Patrick’s shirt, fighting him for control of the slip of each button through its hole until his shirt hung loose, dark cotton framing pale skin and the angry red length of Patrick’s cock. “Fuck, you’re — you’re so fuckin’ pretty…”

 

“Your turn,” Patrick quirked an eyebrow and sat back on the bed, fingertips walking along the waist of Pete’s jeans. “Come on now, don’t be shy.” Pete wasn’t, could never be, mistaken for _shy_ , rolling his hips as he worked denim down his thighs, over his calves and kicked to the side. “Mmm, more? For me?”

 

The boxer-briefs followed, hitting the floor unnoticed as Pete stood, painted pretty in flickering shadow, dark cock caught between loose fingers. He played with it like he was teasing, the gorged, wet head sliding slick through his fingers as his free hand cupped the swell of his balls.

 

“Is this what you want?” he asked, stepping closer, flirting the sticky tip along the thick flush of Patrick’s lower lip. Patrick’s heart pulsed raw and messy, scraping effigies into the hollow of his ribcage as he stayed perfectly still. “Taste?”

 

Patrick did, tongue sliding wet along the bitter-salt slit, lips sealed soft around the smooth, blood-gorged head. He didn’t look away, eyes on Pete’s as he worked him over slowly. This was about trust, even he could see that, proving to Pete that he could give a little. Patrick could give as much as Pete needed and then a little more, he was sure of it.

 

“Fuck, Patrick, I —” Pete pulled away, hand gripping tight at the base of his cock, veins springing thick along the velvet-smooth length of him. “Lay back, okay? Let me — just, let _me_ , yeah?”

 

Dazed, Patrick nodded, the taste of Pete’s cock clinging dark and musky to his lips. He shuffled back onto the mattress, propped on an elbow as Pete stretched out next to him, thighs parted and the lube tucked to his palm. Knees drawn and back arched, the double-click of the cap echoed around the room, a thin drizzle of slick-shine pooled against the tight heat of his hole.

 

“You said you didn’t think I’d be as good at this as you,” Pete whispered, fingertip skating along the rim. Patrick’s eyes bounced between his fingers, the flushed-raw length of his cock against the twist of his stupid tattoo and the molten heat of his gaze. Oh fuck, he wasn’t expecting a floor show. “What do you think right now?”

 

Patrick grinned, fingertips skimming along the heat of Pete’s thighs as he said, “Prove me wrong.”

 

Patrick had watched people finger themselves before. Exes, one night stands, the parade of pretty girls and boys that passed through his bed, the show-offs, the confident ones, the ones that knew a porn star’s trick or two to turn his head and get him off. This felt different — personal, vulnerable — less about cheap titillation and more about proving something; a point, his worth, himself. Arousal tasted bitter at the edges with a thin veneer of guilt.

 

So, Patrick watched. He watched the way Pete’s eyes met his defiantly, refusing to flutter as he breached his body with two crossed fingers. He watched the way Pete’s throat worked desperate, gulping air like there wasn’t enough to go around. He watched the way Pete fucked himself open slowly, adding a third as Patrick, lube liberated from the tangle of the duvet, slicked his palm. He watched the way his own pale hand curled around the lust-dark length of Pete’s swollen cock, watched the way Pete’s hips twitched as he rolled the heel of his hand over the sticky, leaking head on each upstroke.

 

He jerked him slowly, lingering strokes that incited straining hips and desperate, breathy little moans bitten off in resolution. He slid lower, fingertips sliding over Pete’s balls and down, rubbing slippery around the stretched-out rim like he was waiting for permission.

 

It was granted, Pete’s knees drawn up as Patrick rolled to his stomach between them, mouth sliding wet and messy around the eager push of Pete’s fingers. There was lube in his hair, sweat half his own, half Pete’s, catching crystalled in his sideburns as he teased his tongue into the hot, slick tight of him.

 

He let Pete set the pace because, fuck it, at this point he felt it was only polite, working his tongue when Pete pushed himself open for it, flirting the tip against sensitive places when Pete backed off. The taste clung thick and sticky on his mouth; lube, sweat, something dark and earthy that had him rutting desperation into the mattress beneath him. Patrick liked using his mouth in bed, liked sucking dick and eating pussy and, yes, this. Fuck, _this_.

 

Pete’s cock was dark, flushed red and angry, grappled in the greedy grasp of his fist as he worked himself over with hard, choppy little jerks. Patrick twisted his tongue, driving deeper between the stretch of Pete’s fingers, licking lube and sweat from the length of them as Pete tensed, toes curled against the mattress. This felt good, incredible, Patrick’s chest too tight as he rolled his neglected cock against the sheets.

 

“Fuck, _Trick_ ,” Pete gasped, head thrown back and fingers spread, opening himself up for the invasion of Patrick’s mouth, his lips, his tongue, hissing curses at the nerve-sharp suggestion of teeth against his rim. “Oh, fuck I — I’m gonna come if you… Oh God… Stop,” he fisted a handful of Patrick’s hair, clearly caught in the delicious indecision of shove him closer or yank him back, “you have to stop or I’ll —”

 

He slowed but didn’t stop, Pete making soft, wet little noises, sweat trickling down his neck to lustre up his tattoos like they were brand new. He looked wrecked already, heaving chest and muscles corded tight. Patrick pulled away, reluctant, a long slow pull on Pete’s cock delivered just to feel him shiver.

 

“You...” Pete began, eyes still closed and head still tipped against the pillows. Patrick stole the opportunity to kiss softly at his throat. “You are _unbelievably_ fucking dirty, you know that, right? Like — your face does _not_ give that away _at all_.”

 

Patrick smiled, heart skipping butterfly wing sensation as he stroked his knuckles lightly against the curve of Pete’s cheekbone. “Then you’re not looking closely enough.”

 

“I want,” Pete whispered, hand sliding around the swollen length of Patrick’s prick. He hissed, tense, nerves firing neurons to send him shuddering against Pete’s chest. Pete didn’t continue.

 

“I know,” Patrick murmured. “Me too.”

 

“Can I ride you?” Pete asked, hand slowing. Patrick’s hips rolled with each stroke, prolonging the contact of Pete’s rough palm as he leaked, thick and sticky, against the copper-gold of his skin. Patrick nodded, eager, heart thrumming and nerves burnt raw and fucked as he rolled to his ass and shuffled, back flat to the headboard.

 

Pete found the condom, kicked amongst the sheets, found the lube and smeared a dab across the sticky head of Patrick’s cock. “Feels good this way,” he assured him, rolling down the latex with a quirk of a smile. Patrick stared, entranced, at the way Pete’s hand looked against the rubber-sheathed length of his dick.

 

The length of Pete’s thighs against his own was close to too hot, sticky-wet with sweat and leaked lube, his face in sharp profile as he looked back over his shoulder, lining the thick, hard length of Patrick’s cock to the tight, sharp heat of his hole. “Wait,” Patrick hissed, nails sinking rose-bright crescents into the skin of Pete’s hips. Pete paused, an arm draped around Patrick’s shoulders as he smiled. “I want you to know, this isn’t — it’s not just sex for me, you know? Not anymore, not now. I — I’m… I _like_ you, okay?”

 

And Pete grinned, eyes ducking down like he didn’t want to share the joke as he brought his lips to Patrick’s ear, breath skittering ticklish along the shell as he whispered, timed to perfection with the slow drop of his body over Patrick’s cock, “Yeah. I kinda _like_ you too.”

 

It was exquisite, really. The gradual slide of hot, tight perfection something close to spiritual as Pete groaned, thick and twisted, in the back of his throat. His eyes never left Patrick’s, burning bright with lust and desperate challenge. Patrick wondered if he’d pause, if he’d take a second or two to adjust but instead Pete kept moving, kept sliding, slow and slippery down the length of Patrick’s cock.

 

He stilled, lip bitten and hands tangled once more in Patrick’s hair as he came to rest against Patrick’s thighs. Stomach tight with lust and need, Patrick glanced down, enamoured by the way Pete’s flushed, dark cock pressed against the pale softness of Patrick’s belly, the way the red-gold curls around the base of his own cock mingled with the jet-dark of Pete’s.

 

Reaching down, he traced the pad of his thumb where they were joined, shivering at the way Pete stretched out tight around him. Then, Pete began to move. He started slowly, circling his hips and rocking the leaking length of his cock up between them. Patrick slid his hands though Pete’s bangs, holding them back so he could watch the way he looked as he fucked himself on Patrick’s cock.

 

Faster, harder, he was making those delicious little noises once more, breathed against the flush of Patrick’s mouth and groaned into the hollow of his throat between kisses that made his head spin dizzy. Patrick found it with the arch of his hips, the feathered thrum of ecstasy that tensed Pete’s spine, that softened his mouth until Patrick could kiss him deeply, tongue rolling against the unresisting slide of Pete’s.

 

“That good?” Patrick groaned, knowing that it was. “Fuck, you’re so feckin’ pretty like this, Íosa Críost,” and he knew he was barely comprehensible, swallowing vowels like he wanted to swallow every pretty little moan Pete made for him, “taibhseach… chomh taibhseach… mo Pete.”

 

He slipped a hand around the fucked-raw length of Pete’s pulsing prick, squeezing, stroking, keeping rhythm with the frantic rock of Pete’s hips above him. The warmth was rising, pooling in his gut and spreading out in delicious waves as he bit his lip and held on desperately, thumbing over the sticky-bright tip of Pete’s cock.

 

Pete came apart like an explosion, like a detonation as he howled, head tipped back and hips slamming to Patrick’s. A stream of babbled nonsense, of curses blurred with declarations, fired the air as the first pulsing throb of bitter-salt pearl spilled from the head of his cock. Patrick worked him through it, enraptured, felt the warmth of it splash to his chest, his stomach, a streak against his chin as Pete clawed the intensity of it to the stretch of Patrick’s shoulders.

 

He kissed him, slow and lazy as he came down, rubbing the last tingling throb from the twitching length of his cock. His own prick throbbed, hard and aching, still sheathed in the heat of Pete’s body, delighting in the delicious clench each movement invoked. “You’re incredible… Hop off now, let me just —”

 

“Keep going,” Pete demanded, sliding off Patrick’s lap and rolling to his back, legs spread and stretched, lube-wet hole on display. “Come on, I love it…”

 

Unsure if he meant the feel of Patrick on top of him, or the burnt-raw sensation of being fucked after he’d come, Patrick moved, lining up and thrusting back inside. Pete felt looser now, the give of his body letting Patrick drive in deep. He was aware, distantly, of the curl of Pete’s toes against the sheets on each thrust in, aware but unable to do much beyond fucking their hips together, grinding his pubic bone against the softening length of Pete’s cock.

 

“Fuck biology,” Pete grunted, hooking his thighs onto Patrick’s hips. “Swear to God, I — you feel so fucking good like this…”

 

The need was back, Patrick’s jaw tense with it as he took his weight onto his hands and watched the way Pete moved beneath him. Faster, harder, he found the pace he needed to push himself up, higher, closer, drinking in the desperate groans that fell from Pete’s lips. “Could fuck you forever, you know, you feel so fuckin’ good, so tight. Gonna do this again when you’re hard again, gonna bend you over and fuck you from behind til you — til you beg me to let you come, I — I —”

 

It unfurled without warning, the power of his release blowing through him like nuclear wind, each pulse and pound and throb of it driving his hips deeper, harder, Pete clenching like a love song around the length of his cock. He bit down, sinking his teeth into the stretch of Pete’s shoulder as it twisted through his veins like starlight, rutting his hips like he could draw it out if he just moved in the right way.

 

He collapsed, blissed out and body blanketing Pete’s beneath him. Pete held him close, hands skimming up and down his back as he drifted back slowly, biting kisses along his jaw until their lips met, soft and sweet.

 

“Good?” Pete asked, shuddering as Patrick pulled out carefully, tying off the condom and tossing it in the vague direction of the wastepaper bin.

 

Patrick smiled, dusting the stupid fucking rose petals off the duvet, peeling them from where they’d stuck to his skin. He stretched out next to Pete, determined to kiss and touch his way through it until they could go again. “Fuckin’ _fantastic_. I should trust you more often.”

 

“You said something,” Pete whispered, words all but lost around the press of his mouth to Patrick’s throat. “What does ‘mo’ mean?”

 

 _Mo Pete_ , that’s what he’d said, sinking desperate fingernails into Pete’s skin. He paused, lips quirked into a smile as he titled Pete up by the chin, catching his gaze like a prize as he murmured, “It means ‘my.’ My Pete.”

 

And Pete, he smiled shyly, fingertips trailing through the copper hair above Patrick’s heart as he said, “Mo Patrick.”

 

Something unfurled under Patrick’s heart then, something warm and soft that didn’t ache, didn’t burn, didn’t throb. It felt like...not quite hope, but perhaps the _beginning_ of hope. The deep breath before the first step off, the first glimmer of wondering, truly, deeply, honestly what this could _be_.

 

Topaz-chipped eyes were lidded as Pete gave him him a sleepy, sated, fucked-out smile full of peace. “Think we could _totally_ go for round two--and three--after a _wee nappie?”_ He said the last words with a ridiculous approximation of what Patrick strongly suspected was a horrible _Scottish_ accent, rounded and elongated around a yawn that seemed to burst from his chest. But _a wee nappie_ sounded good, come to think of it. After all, it wasn’t like they had to be up and out at sparrow’s fart in the morning.

 

“Come on then, up you come.” He pulled a resisting, protesting, wooden-limbed Pete up and under the covers for once — they’d have to wash them for sure so may as well get their money’s worth. He pulled the duvet up over them both and started to tug Pete close, but should have known better. No sooner had he touched his shoulder than Pete was wriggling, worming, yawning and sighing all at once against him like he had just been given the keys to the kingdom but simply couldn’t be bothered.

 

“Mo Patrick.” Pete whispered against his neck, and Patrick murmured back _ache mise_ without thinking as sleep swept over him.

 

_All yours._

 

~//~

 

He was still _mostly_ asleep, wrapped in warmth and hair stuck to his cheek and something that felt like a hip bone lodged against his own. It’d be a challenge to say what exactly had woken him up, but Patrick still felt that inordinately pleased feeling of knowing you could just let out your breath and slip back under the warm, grey blanket of sleep. Pete rolled over, pressing his face into his neck and shoving an ankle over his, shifting his hips with a flutter of fingers over Patrick’s hip and he was about to push him off the bed for flopping about like a pancake.

 

But then a warm hand wrapped around his cock, fingers barely brushing the curls at the base before sweeping upwards and he couldn’t help the tiny, cracked whine that fell from his lips. He felt Pete’s breath huff out in a stifled laugh against his neck and Patrick decided it was better all around to just let it happen. After all, he couldn’t think of a reason not to, not when Pete’s fingers were sliding sloppy around him, lips starting to press wet kisses to his neck as he felt the pressure building in his gut — damn morning wood, _that’s all it was_.

 

“ _Pete.”_  He gasped out as he teetered on the brink, rutting his hips messily and wholly uncoordinated with the movement of Pete’s hand, but somehow it spiraled together to feel lazy and _perfect._ He shuddered, clenching at any part of him as he whined high in his throat, uncaring of how he sounded.

 

Pete whispered _yeah baby, that’s it, come on_ and he had time to gasp, to give a final heroic thrust and then he was coming between them, the sudden slickening of Pete’s hand making the shuddering thunderclap of pleasure even _better._  His back arched as he threw his head back on the pillow, voice hoarse and raspy as he cried out louder than he meant but _damn_ it just felt so… _good_. Pete stroked him through it, letting him ride it all the way to the end, a wave now nothing more than foam on the surf and Patrick concentrated hard on not whimpering.

 

By some miracle, his hands still functioned and he hadn’t gone blind with the force of his orgasm. So he cracked an eye open just enough to haul Pete up — more by suggestion and grunts than actual force — and slipped a hand down to wrap around his cock, gratifyingly hard and needing. Pete gasped into his neck, rutting down against Patrick’s hand and letting out short breaths that ended in a delicious little high note that Patrick was becoming _very_ fond of hearing.

 

He huffed encouragement into Pete’s ear, voice still wrecked with sleep and the unexpected bellowing, but they seemed to spur him on all the same. _Díreach mar sin, tá tú rud deas...beidh teacht orm?_ He asked and Pete shuddered, mumbling something and then his brain caught up with his mouth and he would have thumped himself on the forehead in chagrin had his hand not been occupied. “That’s it, just like that…” He untangled his other hand from the sheets and took a firm grip of Pete’s ass, following the motion of his hips gently. “Come for me?” He whispered as he slipped a finger between his cheeks, dipping into his body the barest bit and was gratified to find it still slicked with a hint of lube.

 

Pete’s back rolled before going shock straight like he had pressed a cattle prod to his hole, rather than a gentle, inquisitive finger. He let out a gasping, grunted whine into Patrick’s neck that made something possessive wrap around his heart--it was a wholly unguarded sound. Not the kind of sex noises a person would make when they were trying to keep up the titillating charade that sex was glamorous and dignified, no. This was a soul-deep sound of _letting go_ as his hips rolled a final time as his whole body trembled as he came, mingling with the white already streaking Patrick’s stomach. He worked him through it, pulling his finger away and working his cock finely as to not overwhelm him, but unable to help hoarding the little twitches Pete gave as his thumb slid over the head.

 

Sweat-and-other-fluid-slicked, Pete slumped down against him, his hips settling against Patrick’s while his shoulder blades stayed pressed upwards, held by the solid foundation of his forearms where they were bracketing Patrick’s head. They both breathed, coming down from the rush of need and completion until Pete mumbled something and tumbled to the side.

 

It occurred to Patrick that he should find something to clean away the mess on his stomach but nothing was immediately available. In lieu of alternative options, he grabbed the far edge of the sheet to wipe himself mostly clean, before pushing it away and using that as a credible reason to scoot closer to Pete. “Good morning.” He murmured and chipped-topaz eyes flickered open to meet his.

 

“Morning.” A soft, dreamy smile floated across Pete’s lips and he reached out to tangle their fingers together. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Patrick wondered what he was doing as he shifted ever so slightly so his foot was nestled under Pete’s calf but the torrent of internal recriminations and justifications didn’t come. It was just… _nice_. “Hope that wasn't a halfway bad way to wake up.” Pete purred self-satisfactorily as he grabbed the pillow and bunched it under his head. He rolled to his stomach, and Patrick shook his head with a snort.

 

“Not the worst.” He softened the snark with a smile as he shifted a bit, settling deeper into the tumble of blankets and limbs and sheets. “And all things considered, I’m surprised I don’t feel rough as a badger’s arse.”

 

“...what do badgers have to do with anything?” Pete was looking at him strangely, and he shook his head.

 

“Twatbasket. It means hungover.”

 

“Ah…” Pete gave him a look that Patrick hadn’t quite deciphered yet, but he was working on it. “That makes absolutely no sense, you know. Half your sayings are just… crazy.”

 

“I don’t think I’d quite go to crazy. _Inventive_ , perhaps.”

 

But Pete shook his head with a teasing light in his eyes. “Nope. Like...you say _jacks_ instead of bathroom. And _craic_ instead of talking. And there’s that one time you said _chiseler_ and I think you meant kid. And those are just the ones I’ve figured out so far. And now you’re comparing being hungover to a badger’s ass. So yes — _crazy.”_ Patrick grumbled an approximation of his dismal assessment of his bedmate’s mental facilities under his breath and Pete’s eyes lit up. “But I like it when you do _that_.”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Speak Irish.” Pete scooted closer so their hips were touching and Patrick glared with no real ire.

 

“First of all, it’s _Gaeilge_ , you thick gobshite — national language and all that, and one of the oldest tongues still spoken on the continent, thank you very much.” God but he sounded like an absolute twat when he turned into a guidebook. “But… yes. I slip into it sometimes, it’s all Nana and Granda spoke to us for years growing up and here, actually. One of the largest Gaeltachts is here in County Galway.”

 

“ _Goltecht?”_ Pete mangled it, and Patrick shook his head with a smile.

 

“ _Gayle-techt.”_ He instructed gently, nodding when Pete achieved a passable pronunciation. “It means those who grew up with it as our first language.”

 

“Gotcha. Well...I like it, it sounds so pretty.” A snort escaped that he didn’t _really_ mean as Pete rolled up with a grin. “Teach me one of your sayings, you know? Something… I dunno.”

 

An evil thought took root, and Patrick smiled. “Níl aon tóin tinn mar do thóin tinn féin.” He gabbled, unable to help himself, then slowed down and dragged out the pronunciation as he helped Pete through the unfamiliar sounds. “It’s _neel ane tone-tine mor duh hone-tine fayne_.”

 

“ _Neel aine tone-tin more duh hone-tin faynes._ ” Pete mangled back, and he decided it was good enough for now, nodding. “What’s it mean?”

 

“ _Technically_ it means there’s no place like home.” Patrick grinned, attempting to look innocent but he could tell by the way Pete’s eyebrow was raised that he was failing miserably. “But the most direct translation would be —” He reached down and ran a finger feather-light along the valley between his cheeks. “— there’s no sore arse like your own sore arse.”

 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Mr. Leprechaun.” Pete grinned even as he trembled just the barest bit beneath the tantalizing brush of his fingertip and Patrick huffed.

 

“Swear to god, you ganky gobshite, call me a leprechaun one more--” His tirade was cut off by Pete sealing their mouths together, fingers coming up to twine into the fine hairs at the base of his scalp and Patrick decided he’d let it go. Just this once. But he wasn’t going to let Pete call _all_ the shots so he rolled them over, pushing Pete down and pinning his hands next to his head as he began to press biting kisses to his neck, just under his jaw.

 

A quick glance told him his display of dominance was not in any way _bothering_ him — just the opposite. His eyes were closed and a blissed-out, slack smile was on his face and Patrick promised himself one of these times he’d tie Pete’s hands to the headboard and eat him out until he cried. But that was for another time. Today he had a promise to keep, as long as it would be amenable to all involved.

 

“You remember what I told you I was wanting to do to you, last night?” Pete nodded, whispering _tell me again_ and Patrick grinned as he worked his way across Pete’s collarbones, dipping down to attend to the necklace of thorns that was the most maddeningly attractive distraction. “I said I was going to bend you in half and fuck you from behind ‘till you’re begging me to let you come.” Pete’s moan was delicious as he nodded frantically, the sound shooting straight to his cock and he felt life stir as blood began to route away from his brain. “You want that, my fine thing?”

 

“ _Yesssss.”_ Pete’s answer was a hiss as he pushed up to kiss him again, fingers flitting down to cup his balls and stroke over the velvety, paper-thin skin. He was very gratified to note that Pete was already half-hard and growing harder by the second so he smiled against his lips, but then pulled away as a thought occurred to him.

 

“Not if — I mean, not if you’re sore though. I don’t want to be hurting you.”

 

Pete shook his head, eyes lit with a gentle, teasing light that still somehow managed to look a bit like surprise. “You won’t. Nobody’s ever, I mean you’re — I swear you really are better at it than I am.” He shook his head like he was unhappy with his words and reached down to wrap long fingers around Patrick’s cock that made a whimper beg him for release. “Please? Just — do whatever you want to me.”

 

Oh, how Patrick felt like exploding at that, just the suggestion coupled with the trust in Pete’s eyes. Mutely he nodded, ducking down to capture his mouth again as he rolled their hips, grinding down and not minding at all the way they gasped into each other’s mouths. He broke away just for a moment to hunt for the lube, finding it fallen on the floor and crawled back to Pete—all bright eyes and an explosion of hair and the smears of last night’s eyeliner laid out for him. Delectable.

 

He slicked his fingers and decided to make good on his even _earlier_ statement—moving down his body with languid ease as he worked him open gently. First he revisited the thorns around his neck with his lips as his fingers flitted at his hipbone, then he moved down to capture a taut nipple between his lips, starting soft before a scrape of his teeth had Pete crying out as he twitched and shuddered.

 

His hips were rolling gently with Patrick’s hand, a beautiful display of cooperation if there ever was one, as he kissed and bit and sucked and licked his way down his body—the hollows between his ribs, the valley under his sternum, the jut of his hipbones. By the time Patrick had made it down to press teasing bites to his inner thighs Pete was fucking himself easily on his fingers, little mewling whines falling from his lips punctuated with gasps when his questing mouth and fingers found somewhere sensitive. Patrick did his best to remember each, to catalog each place that excited him but his mind spun around a delicious idea that had him humming as he nosed Pete’s cock teasingly.

 

“Feel good?” He murmured, mouthing at the base and grinning at the huffing grunt from above him.

 

“It’d feel _better_ if you put your mouth _on_ it.” Pete teased, somehow still managing to be a smartarse even though Patrick could feel the way his thighs twitched with every crook of his fingers. He liked it.

 

“Oh beggin’ your pardon — this then?” He lapped little licks up the shaft before letting the soft head slip between his lips and savored the way Pete groaned _yes_. He decided to give him just a bit of a reprieve, pulling his fingers free to hold his hips down as he took him deep and swirled his tongue around with each bob of his head. Before long, Pete’s head was thrashing against the pillow, nails dug into his own thighs as he hissed delicious curses at the beams above.

 

Patrick pulled off for a breath, wondering if they had time for him to make him come like this _and_ keep his promise of a round two…but Pete made the choice for him, nearly clobbering him in the head as he rolled to his hands and knees on shaking limbs.

 

“Fucking — just _fuck me_ ,” he rasped and Patrick couldn’t help the sparkle of satisfaction in his chest at the breathless need in his voice. Nodding with a grin, he reached into the nightstand and grabbed one of the condoms he had stashed there in cautious hope when they arrived and sat back on his heels for a moment as he rolled it on, admiring.

 

“Christ above, you’re pretty.” Cock wrapped, he pushed forward to run his nose along Pete’s spine, tongue flitting over every other knob of it. “So pretty, all the time but God, like this? Fuckin’ _gorgeous_ —” Pete shivered beneath him, a whine floating back and he nodded against his waist, nipping a bite just above his hip. He pressed his cock to Pete’s hole and heard his breath quicken as he nodded, looking back over his shoulder.

 

“Yeah, I — c’mon. Do it.”

 

“Do it yourself.” Patrick purred, hands resting lightly on Pete’s waist. “Take it slow now.”

 

Pete seemed to get it, arching his back just a bit in the most sinfully delightful way and gently pushing back, sheathing Patrick’s cock in heat inch by tortuous inch and he just stayed still…letting Pete set the pace until he was flush against his hips. A shudder ran through him and he sucked in a deep breath as he adjusted, and Patrick ran his fingertips over his back in gentle soothing patterns.

 

“—‘M good. You can, I’m okay, you—“

 

“You do it.” Patrick grinned as Pete twisted around to look at him, plainly surprised. “Scoot forward.” He jutted his chin towards the headboard and they shuffled forward carefully, Patrick’s cock staying seated miraculously inside him as Pete took hold of the well-worn wood and groaned as the angle changed. “There now, all you. Fuck yourself just how you like.” He murmured, gripping Pete’s hips for balance but making no move and delighted in the way Pete nodded with a gasp as he started to _move_.

 

He rolled his hips, pulling off just a bit and then pushing back, beginning a rhythm that had him gasping and whining as he fucked himself, shallowly at first, but growing deeper, more aggressive with each thrust. Patrick did his best to keep himself grounded, immobile but _God_ it was hard to not thrust back, to marry his movements with Pete’s. But he had a goal, an idea, a half-formed instinct of what Pete would want, what he would enjoy. So he watched the way the muscles in his back rippled as he fucked himself, the slight sheen of sweat just starting to mist that incredible almond skin, the tremulously hungry whines that fell from his lips as he moved.

 

His thighs were taut when they knocked back against Patrick’s, the muscles in his ass clenching as he angled up on the back-thrust and Patrick couldn’t help but gasp himself at the strangled groan Pete gave as he dragged his cock against that place deep inside. It sounded like cracked rock beginning to slide free as his movements became less even, less rhythmic and more chaotic as his cries rose an octave, if Patrick’s ears weren’t totally off.

 

“Feel good?” he purred, waiting to hear what he suspected Pete wanted but electrified with the thrill of not asking. Pete nodded and he licked his lips — if he decided to just keep fucking himself like this, under his own steam using Patrick’s cock like a toy, well… it wasn’t like he wasn’t about three thrusts and a cupful of self-control away from blowing his load himself.

 

“You look so good, so pretty on my cock, good boy.” Pete groaned again at that, shuddering and clenching down and Patrick had to breathe through his nose to keep a hold on it all. He was so tight and welcoming, his back arching and head thrown back as his tempo quickened, shallow thrusts with Patrick’s cock deep inside him that had them both gasping. Patrick couldn’t help it — couldn’t help the words that tripped and fell from his lips like rocks down a well. “Look at you, you’re so good, so _fucking gorgeous._ Just like that, good boy, a choinneáil ar siúl, tá tú ag déanamh chomh maith— _”_

 

He nearly lost it again as Pete turned to look at him, eyes dark with pupils blown and raw need painted over each feature like watercolors. “ _Please._ ”

 

Patrick had intended to make him say it, to wait for _fuck me like you mean it,_ for _fuck me so hard I can feel it in my throat,_ for _make me come, I can take it._ But the naked want on Pete’s face had him nodding, gasping out a lust-cracked _mé beidh_ of his own, pulling him back on his cock and covering his hands on the headboard with his own as he started to _move_.

 

His first thrust knocked a stupid, senseless little _oh_ from his lips and a deep, satisfied groan from Pete. His second ignited his blood like a match to a stream of gasoline, body moving and rolling seemingly on its own as he pounded into him… and he was _lost_. Lost in the roll of the tide of his hips, lost as he was drenched in Pete’s frenzied cries and his babbled stream of _yes yes god more yes fuck fuck don’t stop please please don’t stop fuck so good so good please._

 

Patrick hadn’t instructed and Pete hadn’t volunteered, but it hung unspoken between them on gossamer wings that he had to wait, that he would hold on until Patrick said to let go. The thought, the very idea of Pete teetering on the knife’s edge had him gasping, trying to reward him with every thrust, every tilt of his hips as he hit that spot inside him over and over and over until Pete was nothing more than a trembling, begging cyclone, barely contained.

 

He was dimly aware of a trickle of sweat making its way down his own spine as he bent over Pete’s body, tucked his face into the crook of his neck as Pete arched and threw his head back. He mouthed at the salt-slicked skin as he pried a hand free from where he was gripping Pete’s, both of them scraping channels in the worn wood and reached down for his cock. It hung, heavy and needing and he slid his hand over it’s length, feeling the soft give of skin over rock-hard tissue and he gasped out, “Domsa tar. Come — come for me,” with his last breath before he tumbled over himself.

 

Maybe it was some mysterious combination of Pete’s cry mingling with his own, maybe there had been something in the lamb or in the air or in the water but he swore coming had never felt so good. It was wholly unlike lonely orgasms in the shower with only his hand and a mental stash of pornography to get him there.

 

His last thought as he cried _PetePetePete_ and jackknifed his hips with that stuttering, wanton, desperate need that overwhelmed propriety and rhythm and anything else except _yes_ was that nothing had ever felt so perfect. Nothing had ever sounded like Pete’s shout of his name, nothing had ever filled him with reckless satisfaction as feeling Pete’s body contract and shudder around and beneath him, cock roiling under his hand as he slid his thumb under the head and felt him come with a shout that ended in a long wail. Nothing had ever felt like thrusting home one final time as he _came his fucking brains out_ to the sound of Pete coming undone.

 

Like dominoes, they both crumpled—limbs trembling and muscles slackening as they slumped down, down, tumbling to the bed in an undignified sprawl of muscles that refused to contract again. Pete was shaking beneath him and Patrick felt sure he was doing the same but he couldn’t feel anything beyond the storm rushing through his veins, the fire in his lungs and in his gut and the floating bliss that it left in its wake. He held onto Pete like he would float away without him, lost into the ancient rafters to ecstasy rendered in knots and whorls.

 

Pete was still breathing hard and heavy when Patrick regained enough of his soul back into his body to press his lips to whatever skin he could find first—the sinew of his neck, the slope of his shoulder—his hands still gripped tight in his own. Pete trembled and twisted, pressing his shoulder against him and capturing his mouth with his own and they kissed like a last meal, like the howl of the wind before the storm, like the moment of silence before the wave crashed down to cover them in sticky satisfaction.

 

Some time later, he realized he was a bit cold as sweat cooled and he broke away from Pete’s mouth — a pity, that — and pulled the quilt up over them both. The movement pulled him free from Pete’s body and he relished the little shiver as he wrapped them both in cotton and batting. Pete turned and—with surprisingly deft hands despite their trembling—pulled the condom free and knotted it. That little action that Patrick had always done himself because no orgasm had ever knocked him so far off his center made idiotic words trip from his lips before he could stop them. “God you’re—you’re fuckin’ perfect, so incredible I’m gonna keep you, keep you forever I swear…” Pete smiled and rolled them over, wrapping and cocooning them in the quilt, like it could hide them from a prying world as they kissed and kissed and _kissed_.

 

A phone buzzed somewhere but both of them ignored it as they drifted on the tide of fucked-out bliss, Pete’s hands stroking gently at his hipbone while Patrick’s caressed the knobs of his spine. For the first time in a long time, Patrick felt… inclined to not push away. He didn’t feel the familiar spike of irritation, the words he’d used countless times to kindly (and sometimes not so kindly) usher his temporary companion into their clothes and out the door seemed archaic and stupid. It also occurred to him that Pete hadn’t _asked_ — and that said something in and of itself, since he had been the one who had pursued Patrick with bulldog-like tenacity.

 

He was starting to form a picture though of this enigma who dressed in girls jeans and band tees and didn’t seem to own a coat. Pete desperately needed to be _wanted just as he was_. Some might have called it _emotionally needy_ , but Patrick wondered if it wasn’t something simpler, something less spritzed with baser qualities like envy and selfishness.

 

Pete, he decided, constantly questioned if he was _good enough_ to merit the chase, if he was _worth_ the time or the love or the concern. Ironically, he seemed oblivious to the fact that he doled out that which he seemed to crave in quantities that would send many running for the hills…but Patrick felt the opposite emotion as he considered another facet of Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the III (as Pete had laughingly told him as they spun records the night before). His nearly self-immolating need to be wanted also meant that he put himself on display without duplicity or staging, in that decadently-brash but also tremulously honest way that said _this is me—take me as I am or leave._

 

That meant that—at least for now—Patrick could feel a degree of certainty that Pete wasn’t leading him on, wasn’t lying when he said he liked his songs that he had found buried on his iPod, meant it when he said he could imagine living in Galway under the iron-grey skies and morning mist.

 

“I can hear you thinking.” Pete mumbled from the vicinity of his chest, fingers curling against his hip. “It’s disturbing my post-fuck meditative glow session.” Patrick huffed a laugh at that, the incongruous mental image of Pete sitting in a meditation pose idiotic because he strongly suspected he couldn’t sit still for that long.

 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to drag you down from your mountaintop there, Mr. Dalai Lama.” They both huffed muffled chuckles into each other’s skin, and Patrick took a deep, fortifying breath as he pressed a kiss to the tangle of hair under his chin—half of it doggedly clinging to its emo styling by the powers of what he strongly suspected was witchcraft-infused product and the other half giving up into riotous curls. “Pete—not to conform to every feckin’ stupid romantic Hollywood notion your fine nation has ever produced, but…where do you see this going? What are we doing?”

 

He shifted, pulling back to rest his head on a folded elbow and looked at Patrick with the remnants of a well-fucked grin. “You tell me. You’re the one who brought me to your ancestral crash pad.” His eyes were dark, but Patrick could see the beginnings of concern in them and it made words trip from his lips as he brought his hand up to caress his cheek.

 

“No, hey—you, you’re here for how much longer?”

 

“May. Maybe a bit longer if I mess up my paperwork.” He murmured and Patrick nodded, deciding the best answer was generally the simplest.

 

“I’m feckin’ — I’m not very good at this.” He swept his fingers across Pete’s forehead, swiping curls and resolutely-straight strands from his eyes. “But…I meant it, last night. I _like_ you and that…scares the bejaysus out of me.” Pete gave him a sardonic look that said _your speech is going real well, lover boy, why don’t you just admit now you only want me for my kidneys?_ and Patrick groaned a bit and rolled to his back, inadvertently pulling Pete over with him as the quilt tightened. He stared at the beams that he had woken up to on mornings when he had crawled in with Nana and Granda as a child, scared of the monsters that made the house creak, and told himself to drop his balls and be a man. “Can we…can we keep doing this for now, just us, and see where it takes us?”

 

Pete’s grin was bright and full of things that Patrick was sure _he_ could have expressed without sounding like a braying donkey half-drunk on yesterday’s beer as he propped his head up on his hand and raised an eyebrow. “Was that you trying to say _hey Pete, let’s be a thing until you leave and we’ll figure the rest out when we get there? And by the way, I won’t fuck the carrot-headed giant if you don’t crawl under Mei’s skirt?”_

 

“Something like that…” Patrick muttered, rearing up to pull Pete down, to bury his hands in his hair so he could hold his head _just so_ to nip teasing, biting kisses to his neck that had them both wriggling and gasping and laughing all at once. Then Pete’s hands tucked themselves around his ribs and he was _actually tickling him, the little shite_ , and they ended up with Pete somehow throwing the quilt off that was in the process of trying to smother them both, and sitting astride his hips with a grin like sunlight.

 

“I’ve _only_ been waiting like _forever_ for you to ask, shithead.” Pete ducked down and pressed a kiss to Patrick’s lips, murmuring _you’re ridiculous_ and Patrick decided that he was alright with letting that totally-incorrect assessment stand. This time.

  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, we're back!
> 
> And hey! It only took... six weeks this time, instead of two months! That's an improvement and we're claiming it as such! Last time, Patrick had finally realised what a completely gormless gobshite he'd been and was trying to make amends. This time... Well, why don't you read and find out?

The bed _really_ was too small for two people, but Pete wasn’t complaining. He shifted his hips, rolling his body away enough to disentangle from Patrick and stare at the dawn’s weak light brightening the ceiling. His boyfriend slumbered on, oblivious to the world and he felt something spark under his heart.

_Boyfriend_.

The house party fell the weekend after his trip to the coast. Pete issued a formal invitation to Patrick, eager to hold his hand in public and kiss him in front of Oskar’s scoffing and Mei’s giggling encouragement. Unsurprisingly, Patrick huffed a bit, protesting he wasn’t the type to go to student house parties but Pete simply gave him a look; _he_ remembered the first-date-confession about nail polish remover, even if Patrick was going to pretend he didn’t.

Despite it all, Patrick had showed up with a crooked smile and a crate of some sort of craft IPA that Pete had never heard of but was delighted to try. They cracked them open in the close-confined press of the kitchen, bodies jostling around them as they toasted and knocked them back--Patrick with the ease of a barman, Pete with the delight of years of bad decisions.

Then someone came out of the hallway with a shouted _Pete!_ He couldn't help but grin as the voice resolved into all five-feet-nothing of Aimee, his classmate from Linguistic Studies. The blonde California girl hurtled at him, talking five miles a minute as she squealed out excitement. “Ohmygosh, I’m like, _so_ glad you threw this thing I was going _crazy_ all week it was just like _so boring_ I can’t even tell you, like _wait oh my gosh is this him?!”_ Her attention swung to Patrick and she began bouncing on her toes.

“Yeah! This is – uhh…Patrick, he’s, he’s my–” Pete fumbled, his brain speeding up and slowing down all at once as he hurtled against the solid wall panic of what to say.

_“ – boyfriend_. I’m his boyfriend and I have no idea why he’s suddenly turned into a thirteen-year-old girl.” Patrick drawled, holding out his hand.

Aimee giggled and crushed him in a hug before tugging him away. Pete caught the tail end of _– so happy to finally meet you you’re like all he talks about and you can’t even imagine how –_ and as she whisked him away, Pete felt like he’d been struck by lightning.

He could feel the tingles of it still, sparking at his fingertips and along his spine as he shifted again, tipping his head to the side to consider the face sharing his pillow. Lips slightly parted, hair mussed and sprouting every which way, Patrick looked like a vision of contentment and peace and Pete chuckled to himself that he was the absolute opposite once his eyes opened. But still... _boyfriend_ ricocheted through his brain and he couldn’t help but flop his hand around until he found Patrick’s, lacing their fingers together gently.

He thought that...well, he thought _many_ things as he pondered and freaked out and overthought endlessly. _They said they’d be exclusive, that they’d see where things took them, easy and uncomplicated. Did that give him a right to claim Patrick? Was he really his boyfriend or really more of just a... friend with exclusive benefits? But wasn’t that the definition of boyfriend? But would Patrick think that was too much, would he shy away again and hide, would he_ – All of those thoughts vanished as Patrick declared as easily as he’d scoff that _of course_ the sky was blue, what were you, daft? that Pete was indeed his _boyfriend._

A door slammed down the hall and stumbling footsteps sounded as someone fumbled to the bathroom and bounced off the tile as they began to retch into the toilet. Patrick stirred beside him and mumbled something like _fucking hell_ with a few more vowels mixed in. Pete smiled, tugging him closer (quite a feat on the tiny bed) and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. His boyfriend slept on, and he thought about the sunsets above the lowland marshes and the color of Patrick’s hair.

~//~

“Patrick! Put your bleedin’ phone down a’fore I chuck it _and_ you into the feckin’ Liffey!”

Whilst it was Patrick’s first instinct to raise a middle finger in response, when he pried his eyes away from the glow of the screen he was forced to admit — begrudgingly — that the throng around the bar was looking particularly ill set. Mickey continued to scowl untold fury, an unpleasant gesture made that threatened something between kicking Patrick in the balls and hurling him over the bar.

Irritated, and with a litany of excuses about boyfriends who felt the need to feck off into the godforsaken depths of the southern counties and their barbaric lack of reliable phone signal, Patrick began, “But —”

“ _But_ my feckin’ arsehole,” said Mickey, nonsensically. “Pull a bleedin’ pint or fuck off home! You’re as much use as tits on a fuckin’ bull and about half as good-lookin’.”

Cian was first in line at the bar, waving a twenty euro note like he was Jay feckin’ Gatsby. Pete would like that analogy, Patrick would tell him later.

“Don’t you have a fuckin’ home to go to, son?” he asked, in tones that implied the exact opposite of warm customer service. “What do you _want_?”

“Pint,” said Cian, still grinning. “When you’re ready there, _son_.”

“Of what?” Patrick snapped. “Stout? Lager? Water? Feckin’ sheep’s piss? Be more specific, this is a pub, not the Gravity Bar and I’m not Uri fuckin’ Gellar.”

“What,” Seamus enquired sweetly, leaning in next to Cian in a way that Patrick found less endearing, more entirely annoying, “crawled up your arse and bit you on the way in?”

 

“Haven’t you heard?” Cian stage whispered to Seamus, a badly rehearsed joke unfolding between them. Patrick found neither of them remotely close to amusing. “He misses his _boyfriend_.”

“You love me and leave me for _a feckin’ year_ , but that yank turns your head and suddenly you’ve got a _boyfriend_?”

“Sure so, I was holding out for a good looking one, not one so ugly the tide wouldn’t take him out. Away, both of you, let me work.” Patrick placed their drinks down in front of them and plucked the note from Cian’s fingertips with a smile. He turned to the next customer with enough determination that the two of them took the hint. “Now then, fella, what can I get you?”

In truth, the work proved good for him, his attention diverted from the way his phone remained resolutely silent and his bed cold. It was, he told himself, a reminder of how things would be once Pete jetted away back to the states, an inevitability he had no desire to dwell on.

Boyfriend or not, Pete held a blue passport and Patrick a burgundy one and that, sadly, was that. But they had a few months at least, weeks to spend chasing the promise of a fairytale that, while it might not end happily ever after, could at least end in friendship.

He finished his shift late, the last laggards chased from the doors as he wiped down the bar and straightened the stools. He considered the wisdom of stopping off elsewhere for a chaser as he called his goodbyes to Mickey and heard the thunk of the bolt sliding into place behind him. Heading down towards O’Connell Street, silvered in early spring moonlight, he pulled his phone free and hoped for a bit of Irish magic between mobile masts.

Twenty-eight unread messages.

Three from his mammy, one from Niamh and a couple from friends wanting to meet for a drink. But the rest, a glorious twenty-two screens of pixels and terrible grammar, those were all from Pete. Annoyingly, there was also a missed call and a voicemail but given that the clock had long since kissed farewell to midnight, Patrick decided with regret that he probably couldn’t return it.

But he had the texts. They started simply enough, _miss u_ mangled with sadfaces and kisses. Patrick’s shoes hit the pavement rhythmically, his gait slow and ambling as he flipped from message to message and followed the course of Pete’s evening. They’d gone out, it transpired, a literary pub crawl around Limerick (Patrick snorted softly at _there 1nce ws a mn frm nantucket whos dck ws so lng he sck it - snds lke u trck ;) xxx_ ).

By text twelve, it was apparent that Pete was becoming merry. By text seventeen, it was clear that he was entirely sluthered. Text twenty-two, read as Patrick slipped the key into the lock and tried not to think of the way they’d fallen into the hallway together a month before, seemed to suggest Pete was completely fucked.

_Hereryyyyy ttrck!11 wsh u wr heerr i wnna djjds_

He would tease him about it on his return, fresh from the coach and no doubt a little green about the gills. Patrick would invite him to the pub, reward himself with pretty scenery as he pulled another shift behind the bar. He thumbed to the voicemail, intent on clearing the irritating red flash above the icon. He paused, smiled, twelve minutes. No doubt twelve minutes of either fluthered rambling, drunken snoring or the echoes of conversations around the pub from the depths of Pete’s pocket. Whichever it was, it promised him a snatch of Pete’s voice. God knows, he missed it sorely already.

He pressed the button and raised the phone to his ear expecting slurring, drunken sweetness or raucous background noise. He was _not_ expecting a soft, breathy little sigh and the rolling lilt of Pete’s cadence as he murmured, directly into Patrick’s ear.

“Mm, so. I’m in bed and I’m thinking about you…”

Patrick wanted to move. He wanted to shift the suddenly solid weight of his shoes from the boards outside the front door rather than standing there, frozen, with a growing erection like some kind of pervert. The handle was slippery, his hand was slippery, _something_ was slippery and preventing him from turning the fucking thing as Pete’s voice trickled down the line.

“You must be busy, I was hoping we could do this together but… I guess this is just for me now…” The line shifted to static for a moment then the unmistakable sound of a hand stroking slowly along the lube-slick length of a hard cock. The door handle gave and Patrick tumbled inside, slamming against the hallway wall as he desperately fought to get his arms out of his sleeves without letting go of the phone for a moment.

He crashed towards his bedroom, barely acknowledging the sprawl of limbs across the couch. “Evening, Niamh,” he called in greeting; not like he hadn’t seen her tits before but he’d be saving that for next time she complained about noises emanating from his bedroom. “And um, short, stupid one with lip ring… _Ian_! Yes, Ian. Or Colm? I don’t know. Night!”

And he slammed the door behind him, thumbing the lock into place and collapsing down onto the mattress.

He fought with his belt buckle, his zipper, caught in a kaleidoscope of the lilting little moans Pete made, the slick sound of his hand on his cock. Oh God, _God_ , Patrick would go blind before he found his way into his boxers, burnt up on liquid fire racing through his veins.

“Stop,” Pete breathed, as though he could see him sliding a greedy hand under the waist of his shorts. Patrick did, staggered to a halt with fingertips curling through coarse hair. “I want you to listen the first time, okay? Then you can touch, alright? Good boy. Now, take off your pants.” So help him, Patrick did, kicking them aside. “Have I told you how much I love your thighs? Fuck, the way they tense up right before you come… Mm. The shirt now, take it off and lie back.”

There was a devil on Patrick’s shoulder who murmured something about Pete never knowing the difference. His fingers twitched towards his stiff cock, the front of his shorts pulled tight to the ache of it. Pete whispered, soft and tempting, “I know you’re thinking about doing it anyway. You know, getting yourself off to this? Don’t. Put your hands down and _listen_.”

Patrick flicked the phone onto speaker, volume low, and placed the handset on the pillow by his ear. He raised his hips, slipped his hands under his arse in the misplaced hope it might remove the temptation to jerk himself into blindness and watched the way his cock twitched under the cotton.

“Mm,” Pete hummed softly and Patrick could picture it, could see him laid out on a narrow hotel bed, legs spread. If Patrick knew him at all, he knew one hand would be splayed over the ink between his hip bones, the other fluttering shy up the curved, dark length of his cock. “I’ve been thinking about you all night. About your hands. About your mouth. About your cock.”

Patrick sunk his fingers into the duvet beneath him, twisting them into the fabric until they ached. The pale grey of his boxers darkened right above the head of his prick. He made a private promise that, next time he had Pete laid out on the bed, he would tie that cockteasing little arsehole down and make him fucking _beg_. Pete’s breathing hitched, his voice far away, the slick sound of his hand very close, like he was holding the phone between his legs as he touched himself.

“There’s a bruise on my thigh that looks like your mouth, I’m — I’m touching it right now,” Patrick knew the very one, the stain of ruby against copper, the one he sucked there right before he… he… He groaned and raised his knees, humping slowly against the taut pull of his shorts.

Pete kept going, whispering filth down the line broken up with the soft, wet sounds of his fingers or hand. He paused, voice shaking and muffled. Had he tucked his mouth to his pillow? Bitten into his forearm like he did when Patrick fucked him from behind? Oh fuck, Patrick’s dick was going to burst down the seams, exposed wet and messy like some untouched virgin rubbing off on darkened sofas. Over the underwear, under the jeans. He rolled his hips up into empty air and made a wish.

“One finger,” Pete groaned. Patrick’s mouth watered, lost in the fantasy of the silk-smooth tip of Pete’s prick against his lips, his own fingers gently circling the rim of Pete’s hole. “It’s good but not like when you do it…”

Patrick would die here and be happy about it, lost in the melody of Pete’s voice as he pushed his fingers inside of himself and thought about Patrick.

“Mmph,” Pete grunted, Patrick’s heart clenched, stomach swooped, he froze. “I — I’ve got two fingers inside of me right now. I’m fucking myself just how you fuck me.” Patrick could hear it, the heartstop sound of lube-wet skin plunging slick and sticky. He wanted. He ached. “When you listen to this a second time, I want you — want you to finger yourself, okay?”

Patrick made a sound like he’d touched a live wire.

“I want you to touch that spot that makes you see the end of the fucking universe and I — I want you to think about my mouth there. Yeah, I want you to think about me eating you out because — because _fuck_ , babe, I want to. _I want to_.”

Snarling into the pillow, he bit down hard into the stuffing of it, hands clenched into clawed fists as his cock throbbed a demand for attention.

“Three fingers,” Pete whispered, voice like honey over gravel, silk-smooth and fucked-raw. Patrick could feel his pulse in each capillary, nose flooded with the smell of Pete’s skin lingering on the pillowcase. “I want — I want you to fuck me, god, I want your cock so bad right now.” Patrick could relate to that, he wanted his cock, too. “I just — _fuck_ — just want to lay you out and ride you til I come, then bend you over and eat your ass until you — until you _get it_ , I — oh, _fuck_! Oh God, Patrick! _Patrick_!”

That noise, that breathy little moan with the high note chasing the tail end of it, Patrick thrashed his head, nose nudging the smooth, cool case of his phone, his body a tight, taut tingle from crown to toes as he listened to Pete fuck the last of his orgasm into his hand. He breathed deep and slow and slipped a hand down to his waiting cock.

“Fuck,” Pete said, soft now, hazy at the edges. Patrick’s stomach flipped with a peculiar mix of lust and fondness. He liked this Pete, the quiet one, the one with the softened glow about him. Patrick was caught in a paradox. He wanted to fuck him raw, to twist his fingers into the coarse, dark hair at the nape of his neck, haul his spine arched as he watched him take his cock. But then, he wanted to kiss him softly, to curl around him close and safe and breathe the scent of his skin.

“Now get the lube,” Pete whispered, throat raw and voice a rasp, “and put this back to the start. I’ll see you Friday, babe. Sleep well.”

He barely made it five minutes on the second listen, coming thick, hot and endless across his stomach as the world washed white and gold. Copper-salt burnt his tongue from the crunch of his teeth into his lower lip, his fist wrapped tight around his cock as he stroked-squeezed-stroked through each tingling throb.

He would admit to no one that the two fingers deep inside, calloused tips brushed to that heady thrum, sparked fireworks from his hips to his toes and back again. He wouldn’t confess under pain of death to the way he’d tensed as he slipped them into his body, how he’d almost forgotten the way it felt to feel hotglorious _fullness_. No, he wouldn’t tell a soul that he’d come to the thought of Pete’s cock inside of him.

When he could breathe again, when the world hung correctly on its axis once more and his heart slowed from the imminent threat of impending cardiac arrest, he fumbled for his phone, thumbing over Pete’s name. The ringing stung his eardrums as he panted and stared at the ceiling. It clicked to voicemail, Pete’s voice instructing him cheerfully to leave a message.

“You feckin’ _arsehole_ , sending me something like that when I’m working, so. What in _God’s_ name were you thinking you utter feckin’ gowl? I — I — _Jesus Christ_ that was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. What in the name of fuck are you _doing_ to me?”

~//~

The bar was, as Pete would say, _hoppin’_ and Patrick scowled to himself that he had even started hearing the irritating Yank’s voice in his head now. Not that he _really_ minded, but he’d be caught dead in his Nana’s nightie before he told anyone that. Still, it was a busy, busy night, what with the first football match of the season just letting out from Aviva Stadium. A constant stream of folks either celebrating the win or mourning the loss poured through the door, and Patrick thought to himself as he heard people grousing about the line to get in that they really should get a second man to check ID’s at the door.

Still...it kept him busy, kept him from looking at his phone — especially after Mickey had threatened to dump it in the new keg in a bag, so he’d have to drain it by _doing his feckin’ job and serving customers_ to get it back. Glass, tipped over and blasted for a second on the star sink to coat it with a thin film of water. Shake, under the nozzle, pull at the right angle, slow at just the right point to give it the perfect head...and more often than not, if it was a pint of Gat, swirl the drip just right to make the requisite clover.

Over, and over, and over.

Even his banter took on a mechanical quality — he’d been doing this long enough that he had a mental checklist of lines that flew from his tongue without even a thought and the answers didn’t really matter, generally. Most everyone said the same thing when confronted with a smiling barman with sideburns and sparkling blue eyes… he’d heard it all before.

So, on the two thousandth time — or so it felt — he heard the stool scrape as he was halfway under the counter, reaching to adjust the hose that always seemed to work itself loose every ten pours, he just let out one of the lines that he felt reasonably certain he hadn’t used last time. “Well then, what can I get you this evening, my fine friend?”

“A warm Guinness, please.”

His head shot up, nearly dropping the glass he grabbed as honeyed tones flowed over him, the ones he last heard panting his name through a crackling phone line. Pete was smiling at him, chin propped prettily on his hands like he was a school girl leaning over the lunch table to give a peek down her shirt, eyelashes fluttering over an innocent smile.

“ _Pete!_ ” He ground out — perhaps it was more of a squeak, but he decided to not dwell on linguistics — and couldn’t help himself. Pushing onto his toes, he leaned over the bar and grabbed his boyfriend by the scruff of flannel and hoodie strings at his throat and hauled him in. His lips were cold from the night air, but his mouth was warm and wet and _perfect_ as he dipped in for just a taste, just a hint and refused to think about how much he had missed this. He heard a catcall from somewhere by the ancient jukebox and raised his middle finger in that general direction as Pete gasped into his mouth before Patrick reluctantly pulled away.

“Thought you wouldn’t be back til midnight, ya feckin’ gobshite!” He laughed, pulling his shirt back down and picking up the glass he had knocked over.

“It _is_ midnight, you crazy leprechaun.”

Alright, yes, so Patrick would have to definitely pay him back for that one, but a glance at the clock told him he was right. “Ah.” He shook his head, tipping his flat cap back to brush his hair out of his eyes. “Well, yes. It’s been busy. Don’t think I’ll be able to leave now, not with the state it’s in.”

Pete stood up with sadness painting his eyes but he smiled understandingly as he looked at the press of people all trying to get to the bar. “It’s cool, I totally get it. I’ll just go —”

“No you feckin’ don’t.” He shook his head, the item in his back pocket seeming to burn a hole as he suddenly remembered his plan. Reaching into the fridge behind the bar and pulling out the aluminum can emblazoned with — as Pete put it — the colors of freedom, he twisted the cap off and pushed it into Pete’s hands. “Now, take your minerals and sit down at the end of the bar like a good lad. Let me finish off a few of these fine folks and I’ll come collect you. I was due for a break two hours ago, as it goes, and you can at least tell me how the trip went.”

Nodding happily, Pete turned with a wink and a saucy grin and slipped through the press of bodies and Patrick shook himself, pasting on a smile as he wiped clean a glass. He started working through the line like a lumberjack chopping a line of logs; push, pour, pull, swipe. On and on it went until Mickey shot by with a new load of cups fresh from the wash and he nudged him with an elbow, reminding him he was legally required to give him a break if they weren’t to be resorting back to slave labor in the Commonwealth.

His boss laughed and pushed him away, declaring Patrick would make a horrible slave with a mouth like he had, and shooed him off. Slinging the towel off his shoulder and settling it on Mickey’s like he was passing off a hero’s cape, Patrick scuttled away. The truth was, he _did_ want to know how the trip went, truly. The intervening two days had been filled with bursts of text messages coming in annoying duplicate as Pete went in and out of cellular service, so he only had a hazy idea of what adventures he had been up to. But stories...they could be saved for later.

He grabbed Pete’s hand, hauling him off and not minding his protestations that he had only finished half his drink. The glint in his topaz eyes told Patrick that he didn’t _really_ mind losing a few gulps of pisswater, and besides, there were more important things to do. Pushing through the crowd, the men’s room door came into view and he huffed at Pete’s sardonic, “God, babe, you bring me such classy places.”

He ignored him and pushed him into the surprisingly empty jacks, kicking open the stall with a _BROKEN! DON’T USE! YES, THAT MEANS YOU!_ sign taped to the door and pulled Pete inside.

“Shut up.” He growled as he pushed him against the door and descended on him, biting kisses and roaming hands as he pressed their bodies together. Pete moaned against his lips as he plundered his mouth, tongue demanding and hands sunken into his hair. Ducking, he roughly pulled the hoodie and flannel to the side, exposing the sinew of his neck and pressed biting kisses down as he dug his hands into the plushness of Pete’s arse and savored his mewling whines.

“You’re a shit, you know that?” He murmured into his neck, undoing a button so he could run his tongue over the thorns inked into his skin and grinned at the way Pete shuddered under him. “Leaving me a message like that and-- _fuck_ , you’re such a shit, such a _fucking hot, ridiculous little tease_ , swear to fuckin’ God.” His hands were fumbling at Pete’s belt buckle, only pausing to bat his away when he reached for Patrick’s fly. “No, no, not yet.” He smiled at Pete’s petulant whine. “Not after that voicemail.” He sank down to squat on the balls of his feet as he pulled an alarmingly large amount of toilet paper from the roll, spreading it on the grimy floor in front of Pete’s idiotically bright shoes so he could lower himself carefully to his knees.

“Trick, you — we can wait, I — ”

“Oh no.” He ground out as he yanked Pete’s pants down roughly, just enough so his already-hard cock sprung free from the tight press of flimsy denim. “You’re not getting out of it that easy, but this — I’ve been thinkin’ of this _all night.”_

He wrapped his hand around Pete’s cock and pressed his thumb under the head as he mouthed at his balls through the fabric of his briefs — grey peppered with ridiculous jack o' lanterns in glittered orange. He blew out so the heat of his breath enveloped the delicate organs, and he felt a _thunk_ as the back of Pete’s head hit the door with a moan. Pulling off, he looked up at him with an evil grin.

“Now, if someone tells Mickey on us then we’re down the river without a paddle, so you’d best hold your gob for a minute.” He didn’t give Pete a moment to gasp before he swallowed him down, smooth skin sliding against his tongue and he couldn’t help but let out a sigh. He _really_ had been thinking of doing this all night, craving the taste of Pete, at the heft and weight of him...and he had a mental bet of how well he’d be able to keep silent.

Sure enough, he was proved right when Pete began to whine and Patrick grinned as best he could, moving his hips with his hands in silent encouragement for him to gently fuck his mouth. Pete rolled them carefully, tiny movements that kept his tongue centered just under the head and as Patrick reached back into his pocket, Pete started hissing out whispered words, curses and praise.

“God, you — _fuck_ , feels so good, so goddamn good, I — I can’t, you have no idea–” The words stuttered to a halt as the door to the jacks banged open and several men tumbled in loudly, sidling up to the urinals still singing to whatever tune had caught the crowd outside.

Pete’s eyes widened as he looked down at Patrick and clapped a hand over his own mouth. Patrick winked. Tearing open the small foil packet of lube that Niamh had brought home from the clinic with a smirk as she tossed it at him, he slicked up his fingers and began to gently circle Pete’s hole. Just as he had guessed, Pete couldn’t hold back — his body locked up, knees going straight and a tiny, gasped yelp slipped between his fingers.

“Joey, did you say something? Quit messin’ up the rhythm!” One of the men shouted with the necessary volume of the truly shit-faced. “Or are you passin’ another fuckin’ kidney stone, you aul’ bastard?”

“Wasn’t me!” Someone answered back in a deep voice, and there was a shuffling sound. Patrick held his breath as he feathered his tongue against Pete’s cock, fingers circling _, circling_ \--and slipped one inside, just to the first knuckle. Pete’s thighs trembled under him but he kept surprisingly quiet as Patrick kept working him with his mouth, never pulling off but taking him deep so the head nudged against the back of his throat.

“Don’t go lookin’ in the stalls, ya kinky pervert!” The first voice yelled over the sound of running water. “Christ knows you’ll go arse o’er tit if you try to bend down, you lumbering great bollocks, ya!”

“Who’re you calling _lumbering_ you sissy —” The good-natured banter dissolved into the hubbub as the door opened and closed and Pete let out a groan as Patrick pushed further into his body, curling his finger in just the right place.

“ _Jesusfuck,_ you’re, I just, I —” Pete gasped out, shuffling his legs a little wider with a wanton groan as Patrick feathered that little bundle of nerves and starlight. He ground down, clenching delightfully around him as he pulled Patrick’s hat off and jammed it on his own head with fumbling hands. His fingers slid smoothly into the fine golden strands, careful to not tug too hard as he cried out softly. “Another one, _please_ I’m so--” The words ended with a choked gasp as Patrick obeyed, his second finger breaching his body with gentle pressure, working in with a slow slide.

His jaw ached as he kept at it, but he knew what Pete was about to say — that he was close and it made something spark under his lungs. Working his fingers the way Pete liked, curled so that he never let off on the tantalizing thrum deep inside him, he couldn’t help but moan at the way Pete’s hips began to jerk off-rhythm with Patrick’s beat as he started to unravel.

A babbled stream of whispered nonsense filled his ears as he took him deep, trying to overwhelm him with pleasure as he rocked his fingers _just so_ and worked his tongue in a long slide under his shaft. He tightened his grip on Pete’s hip as he trembled, savoring his whisper of _babebabebabe--I’m gonna, gonna, fuck fuckfuck._ Tipping his head back, he looked up and met Pete’s eyes to a gentle hand feathering at his cheek, admiring the way his gaze was glazed, his chest heaving and his mouth open. He was fucking gorgeous.

Then, he hummed as he bobbed back down, the vibrations shaking through Pete’s cock as he took him deep as he could and rocked his fingers mercilessly against that epicenter of bliss.  Pete let out a strangled shout, covering his mouth and whining high and desperate as he came down Patrick’s throat. Patrick held his hips in place, working his mouth as best he could as he lightened his onslaught, fingers moving with decreasing pressure as he helped Pete ride out the blast.

He had barely stopped shaking before Patrick was standing up, pulling his fingers free and pushing close to him to hold him up with the press of his body against the door. Pete was trembling, eyes closed and Patrick’s own hat tipped low over his brow as he heaved in great gasps. Ducking his head, he pressed gentle kisses to the line of his neck, savoring the salt-bright tang mingling with that indescribable tastesmell that was just _Pete_.

“ _Fuck,_ ‘Trick.” Pete gasped out, awed.

“Thinkin’ I just did.” He grinned as he pressed his mouth to Pete’s, kissing him and letting him lick the taste of himself out of Patrick’s mouth and savoring the little gusting sighs as he came down. The press of his own cock was hard and aching against the jut of Pete’s hip, but he ignored it, shaking his head as Pete’s hands slithered down to try and stroke at it through his pants. “No, no.” He chuckled at Pete’s whine. “Saving that for later, now, unless you think you could keep from alerting the Gardai if I locked the door and bent you over the sink.”

Pete shuddered against him at the thought of it, but shook his head with a fucked-out grin. “I can wait.” He whispered, taking the hat off and setting it back on Patrick’s head after running his hands through his hair to smooth it down. “Missed you.”

“Yes, I think that’s been amply established by the leaving of pornographic voicemails.” Patrick snarked with a smile, softening it by pressing another kiss to his lips. “I missed you too, though, if it counts.” He murmured as he pulled away to adjust his cock a bit more comfortably (not that having his cock hard and aching and nearly tucked under his belt could ever be considered _comfortable)_ and they maneuvered out of the stall and over to the sink to clean up and make themselves look as presentable as possible.

“Think you can wait around a bit for me ‘till we close?” Patrick asked, looking at his drooping eyelids in the mirror, which combined with the eyeliner made him look even _more_ delectable.

“You’d have to drag me away in chains.” Pete grinned as he straightened his shirt and re-buttoned it.

Patrick let out a snort. “Let’s avoid that, please. Prison food isn’t my thing.”

“Oh, you know about prison food?” Pete sassed out, and Patrick just rolled his eyes and smacked his arse as they pulled open the door to rejoin the noise and laughter. And if Cian and Seamus and a few other regulars cheered from the jukebox, glasses raised over knowing smirks, well, Patrick would just assume they were jealous.

~//~

It was a strange sensation, belonging.

Pete never really felt as though he belonged in Chicago, chasing his tail for dreams of fame and fortune. Really, all he wanted as he stood on a stage as an angry kid and screamed his lyrics to other angry kids, was that sense of being part of something. He wanted to _matter_ , liked to see high schoolers wearing his band’s shirts because that meant he _meant_ something.

But, of course, none of it really mattered. Bands come and go and shirts fall apart and scared, angry young men find themselves making poor decisions in parking lots.

Did he belong in New Orleans? He felt more at home there, tucked away above Mama Jo’s cafe than he’d ever felt in the townhouse splendor of the Near North Side. But it still wasn’t home. He made friends but not deep ones, firing missed connections in the hope of finding something, _someone_ , that could be his. But no, it wasn’t belonging.

Being with Patrick didn’t feel like that. It wasn’t an endless freefall clutching desperately for purchase on the slippery sides of a pit of his own self-loathing. It wasn’t fractured relief dealt in moments of dizzying reprieve when the world stopped spinning long enough for him to breathe. It was quieter than that. It was _easier_ than that.

“A wise man once said,” Patrick began, voice rough in his ear as fingers traced his spine. “I can hear you thinking and it’s ruining my post-fuck meditative glow session.”

Pete snorted softly in the back of his throat and kissed the stubbled line of Patrick’s jaw. “Sounds more like an idiot savant.”

Sunlight filtered through the curtains, bright enough to be morning, dull enough to be Dublin. Pete met the touch of Patrick’s mouth with his own, lost himself for a moment in the scent of yesterday’s aftershave and that morning’s sweat.

“Are you free for the day?” Patrick asked shyly, a far cry from the man who hustled Pete out of the flat without a second glance. That still stung, just a little. Pete was dealing with it.

“Well, if I put off my lunch date with Natalie Portman and tell Zooey Deschanel I’m out of town… I could probably squeeze you in.”

“Oh, like that, is it?” If Pete hadn’t just got off, his dick would betray the way he felt about that low, gravelled edge to Patrick’s brogue. “How does this sound? We take a shower, we get dressed and I take you out for brunch. We’ll take a walk down by the river, head back home and spend the rest of the day in bed.”

It sounded, Pete thought, entirely agreeable. “Race you to the bathroom!”

An hour later and Pete was close to sitting down and folding his arms like a petulant five year old.

“But where are we going?” he whined, hand laced with Patrick’s as they meandered past a dozen or more suitable looking cafes. “What’s wrong with that one?”

Patrick shook his head and kept walking, towing Pete along like a toddler. “Not right. Not right at all. Come along now, keep up. I’ll know when I see it.”

They had come the long way, it seemed to Pete, in search of sustenance. Past Trinity College and keeping the Liffey well on their left as Patrick wound them determinedly through a dizzying number of side streets and walkways. Finally, he paused, glancing up at an inauspicious hoarding with a shrug.

“Seems nice enough,” he said. For a man who made his living in theatre, he was a truly terrible actor. “Shall we?”

They took a table in the window overlooking Hanover Quay, the menu plopped down in front of them by the kind of green-haired, labret-wearing girl that eyed Pete appreciatively. Patrick chuckled and nudged him under the table. “Yer wan there is giving you the glad eye.”

Pete rolled his eyes and kissed him, tasted toothpaste and Patrick and looked down at the menu. “There’s pancakes?”

Patrick blushed. “Well, I thought — you mentioned them in Galway and — and I thought you might… maybe you’d like some? They’ll put bleedin’ _biscuits_ on them if you ask them nicely, and since you seem to exist entirely on sugar and caffeine I just — I thought…”

If Pete could have made his eyes turn into hearts like his favorite emoji, he would have at that. “You’re very considerate, you know. When you aren’t ignoring me for a week or being totally wrong about Oreos. They’re _cookies_ , not biscuits.”

Ducking his head in acknowledgement, like he knew that he deserved the light jab, Patrick snorted gently nevertheless. “Most definitely not, but you’re a yank. What more can I expect from a nation that names it’s largest county Tex- _ass.”_

“They’re _states_.” Pete laughed, sticking his tongue out delighting in the easy banter as he scanned the menu. “Nearly independent nations, _especially_ Texas. Did I tell you I had a socialist history teacher who was an Asian guy from there?”

The story was lost to the waitress coming back to take their order and _definitely_ flirting with him the whole time. Pete made a point to reach across and lace his fingers with Patrick’s, smiling up at her with lips bowed in a saccharine curve as she scowled.

“She’s going to spit in our food now.” Patrick observed, and he shrugged.

“Oh well. I’m taken,” Pete traced his fingertips across the bump of Patrick’s knuckles, chin propped on his free hand as he continued. “So, if you could do anything, like anything at all, what would you do?”

“Hmm…” Patrick mulled it over, looking like he was considering telling him to hold the interrogation until he drank another cup of coffee, but then decided it actually wasn’t a bad question. “I don’t know. I mean, there’s the obvious things like be an astronaut and go to space, but somehow I don’t think that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Would you want to do that? Be an astronaut?” Pete queried and he nodded.

“Oh yes. I’ve loved space since I was a tiny thing. My da, he used take me over to see my Gramps every now and then and they’d sit outside smoking their pipes at night and let me sit with them. Made me feel terribly grown up, it did, and my gramps would point out the constellations and tell me to watch for shooting stars. For my last birthday before — well, before he left — Da took me to Dunsink Observatory for family day. They had a whole presentation and we all brought blankets to sit on the big lawn and stargaze, and there was a real astronomer you could ask questions. ‘Twas quite the monumental occasion when you’re ten getting to talk to a real professional, you know.”

“I like it when you tell me things. About you, I mean.” He squeezed Patrick’s hand before raising an eyebrow. “But okay. We’ve established you like space — good to know. But like... what would you want to really do?”

“Like… for a job?” Patrick asked, and he nodded. “Well… something with theater, I suppose. Maybe move to London someday and work on the big shows. But I’d want to come back here, or be… I don’t know. I don’t want to lose my roots.” Pete nodded at that, lip bitten between his teeth and Patrick nudged at him with his foot.

“And yourself? Dreams of the Presidency or opening a bakery?”

Now it was Pete’s turn to snort. “You couldn’t pay me enough to go into politics, so that’s a definite no.” His thumb swept over the back of Patrick’s hand. “I don’t know. I mean, being here has definitely made me realize there’s a lot more out there. I _thought_ I had broadened my horizons plenty but now it’s just...there’s so much more.”

“It’s a big world.” Patrick murmured, and then looked up at the window. “Sun’s come out for you, look at that. Like it knew it needed to show off for the visitor.”

“Is it always cloudy? Like, I’ve always heard it rains non-stop in England but….” Pete trailed off, concerned by Patrick’s murderous scowl.

“England?” he repeated quietly, like he’d stepped in something particularly gross on the sidewalk. “ _England_?”

“Britain?” Pete backpedaled furiously. Patrick’s scowl darkened. “Ireland! _IRELAND_. _Babe_ , I meant _Ireland_!”

Patrick shook his head, giving him a surprisingly detailed yearly outlook of the Irish weather patterns and the occasional tricks played by the fair folk. Through it all, Pete hummed and watched his lips move, telling himself that asking Patrick questions was basically the best pastime in the world.

“...so yes, that’s the best time to go swimming, if you fancy it.” He finished and Pete let out a chuckle as he sipped his coffee.

“Well. Now I feel prepared to live here forever.”

“Not if you don’t learn to love Ceili music, you’re not.” Patrick snarked back, and Pete laughed.

“Maybe I’ll be a harbinger of a musical renaissance to Ireland.”

Now it was Patrick’s turn to snort as the waitress set down their plates and Pete attacked his stack of Oreo pancakes with vigor. “I think we’re doing just fine on that front, don’t need any of your rap nonsense here.”

A bright guffaw came from Pete, but he said nothing and then it was Patrick’s turn to ask him a question he wasn’t prepared for. “You said you were in bands when you were younger? What sort of music did you play?”

“Oh, this and that,” Pete paused to chew a mouthful of pancake, “hardcore stuff, screamo, I wanted to take a step in a softer direction a few years before… well, you know. But none of my friends were into it and I never found the right person to make it work,” he frowned at his napkin for a moment then smoothed his face back into a smile, “Basically, meeting me now means you never have to hear my God-awful emo scream. Lucky you. How about you? All theatre, all the time?”

“You know how it is,” Patrick took a bite of pancake and wrinkled his nose, his glasses shifting with the motion, “ _Jaysus_ , it’s like eating an actual plateful of diabetes. Doesn’t — doesn’t this make your feckin’ teeth itch? Anyway, yes, I played in some bands in school and uni but Ireland’s not exactly known for its alternative music scene so we jacked it in after graduation. I still balls about with GarageBand when I have the time but that’s where it ends. I love my job, though, wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“So, theatre…” Pete’s pulse was wired wrong, he was sure of it. Every beat of his heart echoed through his temples, his tongue, down into the depths of his guts as he toyed with his hoodie string. He took a deep breath, refused to meet Patrick’s eye and mumbled. “That’s like… basically something you can do in any major city, right?”

Patrick grinned, reaching across and stealing the strawberry from the top of Pete’s pancakes. “I suppose it is.”

“And, like… writing,” Pete continued hopefully. “That’s basically something _I_ can do with a functioning pencil and a notebook.”

“Allegedly,” Patrick took a long swig of his coffee. Pete watched the way his throat contracted as he swallowed. He placed his mug down carefully, ducked down until he met Pete’s eyes with a smile. “Stop overthinking, mhuirnín,” Pete resolved to buy that notebook and start jotting down these things for a session on Google translate, “may the road rise up to meet us, as nana would say. Now, eat your artery cloggers and we’ll take advantage of this fortuitous turn in the weather.”

On the table between them, Pete’s phone lit up with a notification. He flipped to Facebook, frowned at the unfamiliar name above a rather familiar face.

_Róisín O’Connor poked you._

Pete, unsurprisingly, did not know Róisín O’Connor. However, Pete would recognise those eyes anywhere, in any face. It mattered not if they were frowning at him questioningly from across a stripped oak table in a hipster cafe, or smiling from the face of an elderly Irish lady on a Facebook profile picture.

Pete grinned. Patrick raised his eyebrows. “Something funny?”

“Nothing at all, babe,” Pete navigated swiftly though Róisín’s profile. Oh God, this was almost too good; _so many_ childhood photographs. He clicked back to his notifications and returned that poke with a sly grin. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you're still enjoying it. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are adored or you can find us on tumblr @a-smile-like-that and @sn1tchesandtalkers
> 
> Enjoy your weekend!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed that :)
> 
> There's _definitely_ more coming, might be an idea to bookmark or hit subscribe if you think you'd like more of our little Irish bartender and his badly-dressed new friend. Just so you know, Gaelic doesn't always run well through a translator so if you'd like to know what Patrick said to Pete, just let me know. There won't be _much_ Gaelic, but if there's call for it, we could put a little translation of what was said at the end of each chapter. Or you could just share Pete's confusion.
> 
> As always, it would be wonderful to hear what you think with a little comment or a tap on the kudos button, so please don't hold back!


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